


when i rot.

by poopbuddypoopbuddy



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cigarettes, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internal Conflict, Light Drinking, M/M, POV GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Sexual Confusion, Tension, bassist&leadsinger!—dream, drummer!—sapnap, dude i hate preppy punk boys, hint of sexual infliction, piano vinyl records, rockstar! au?, slow burn?, staff worker!—George
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 60,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28556166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poopbuddypoopbuddy/pseuds/poopbuddypoopbuddy
Summary: —ONGOING—George feels it.Understanding of the sensation, he cooed and hummed whenever the warmth of his heart burnt. Skinning his organs and spoiling those butterflies that were flaccid within his gut. Useless and dull. Everything he's ever wanted. And needed. And fought against.It was dangerous, awfully deathly. But only intrigued the brunet even more.For he understood, the rotten feeling only fueled him even more.George feels it..Vulnerability is a fool's greatest enemy, and sometimes, a poisoned attraction.—rockstar! au of dream team—
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Kudos: 30





	1. friable.

**Author's Note:**

> hghhhhhvhhbhvhh piss balls piss balls
> 
> before reading listen to the song 'Girls on Film' cover from mindless self indulgence — doesn't play a big roll in the story but a scene contains it !!  
> —before making this, I wasn't aware of the band's background, i apologize. but i don't support their actions i just like the song lol,, 
> 
> anyways. dream n george said they didn't care if people shipped em, so don't be dicks alright. they don't care lol. anyways gonna go eat mac and cheese so enjoy this piece of shit i managed to write <3  
> Inspired by pri__108 on Instagram!!

George feels it.

Understanding of the sensation, he cooed and hummed whenever the warmth of his heart burnt. Skinning his organs and spoiling those butterflies that were flaccid within his gut. Useless and dull. Everything he ever wanted. 

It was dangerous, awfully deathly. But only intrigued the brunet even more.

For he understood, the rotten feeling only fueled him even more.

George feels it..

Throughout his beholdings of cherishment and the death of lost hope, only George would curl his lips to that. Only George could wither away and die within. And only George could drink within it. Albeit, cold and miserable. 

He was simple and terribly blind. Engulfed of stupidity. So whenever he would ponder aimlessly upon the midnight ground home from work, soaked of rain, he'd asked why..

Why to the world. Even if he didn't aim for a explanatory response or a heartfelt sign for improvement. For he'd always just receive a gust of wind in return, earning him a frustrating grunt.

He was ruined and manhandled into failure. Crushed by the a fruitless planet carelessly, excluded from all he had wanted. 

But, of course.. 

He had, soon, been excepted into warm arms of a blond. Arms wide to carry away all the burdens he'd defended himself from. Arms to tangle with his body. Caring and lovely. Oh how it was lovely.

Before in his troubled days, George wasn't able to know of such, but he would soon realize..

That Friday's were the best day of the week. 

Vulnerability is a fool's greatest enemy, and sometimes, a poisoned attraction. 

Nevertheless, George doesn't recall of this to be of his verity at the moment. As we take the great leap backwards, towards an uninvolved time, to the peak of 1983. Where the Brit was all but a shoddy boy. Broken of distruaght, punctured of guilt from spat-out, thrown away dreams, and bringing forth of his reality to what he is to continue to be. 

He is away from England, and desperate to his employment at the Bar&Theater. Everything booze and swaying, capering bodies that coordinated multiple scampering feet to bass. High heels and galling hands that snaked up skirts, pinching thighs. Downing drinks that stung so good, it made them forget all they perished within. A nice place. A beautiful distraction.  From complications brought forth his overdue stay, with misery and unkindness. He had strayed away from the England winds for reasons of him being of attendance on screens worldwide, admired to infinite people of all in newspapers, and everybody to shout and plea his name. 

So set on it, he was. And yet, a blistering sun burnt it's way from his thin curtains, abusing the material and riddling it's defense of shadowing away from George's face. The apricity consuming his cheeks and lips, soon prodding him awake. Of a bundled, blanket-coated man.

He had snorted at the awakening, grumbling to the lines of dried drool within the corners of his mouth. Humming lowly at the painful, springy mattress, the noise practically acting as an alarm clock.

Slung himself over the bed, he bought time by collecting his thoughts and gaining a vision that wasn't so fuzzy. His tired limps scratched the back of his neck, sniffling away the stuffiness in the room.

He was relaxed for a moment or two, leaning over to pet the dog splayed on his sheets. Sweetly smiling at the slight touch blinking the animal's eyes, charcoal of a pool hidden in the revival. The brown of fur was nice. And George arched his fingers, scratching them. But, it only took a single glance to his chipped alarm clock, for his eyes to widen. Shot of despair, he scrambled himself from his itchy sheets, sprinting off to his bathroom. Tossing aside his screen that presented the time of one-thirty pm.

"Fuck—" He cursed lightly, gritting his teeth as he spat toothpaste onto his brush. "Fucking alarm didn't go off—.." 

Ah, of course, so wonderful it was. Within such an inclosed, dirty apartment that reeked of cat hair and one's two day old Chinese take out, it had been natural for shitshows like this to happen. Where you have such misused minutes to get clocked into your crappy job and you have to discard, yet again, another shower. Kinda disgusting, you'd find it, yes, but masking it away with deodorant does the trick fine.

George had remembered when he'd awaken nicely to a big, white bed. Spacious enough for his whole body to hug. A bed not tainted of tattered, stained sheets or static cat hair, for his mom didn't really allow the cats to be upstairs. There, he actually owned a pillow rather than a couch cushion. There, his room smelled of fine lavender scented candles. Where he could actually slumber and dip himself into dreams, away from displeasing confinement. Either way, before in England, was fine and beautiful. Where he could open up thick blinds without struggling with its hooks. And he'd look out into the neighborhood of cleanliness and optimism, instead of an alleyway collecting garbage and homeless people. He's forgotten that nature of kindred, in such a cold and broken apartment. Frail and old, a creek heard with his very steps.

He stumbled over his coffee table, knocking over dirty, caked paper plates of spoiled food. And he would've scrunched his nose to the stench, if his scarf hadn't got caught in the hooks upon the wall. A struggle to yank the fabric back. And he staggered, knocking water bottle overs and groaning.

How embarassing it to be. He could question with the feeling to be resided from either him or the state of his home, but the two varied greatly because they were both a mess.

The mocking clock only ticked faster as George scrambled his shoes to fit, fidgeting with his laces. He would expect him to get to work thirty minutes late, depending on how the buses decided to comply. Even at that, he prayed that his manager would threaten his job only twice, not to strip it away. And that was if he was lucky. 

Ponder to his employment, it was at a bar. A bar that had been rejoiced with a stage, where as bands have played. Everyday, it would work normally as a bar, until the dusk of one, where the stage was of opening. People cramming themselves in to look upon various bands and mosh in blaring music. And everyday, George worked. With the lights and stage cues, the mics operation, and annoying singers that passed through the curtains. He worked for money that was scarce. So, so, awfully scarce. Not to mention the cleaning he'd preform afterwards, which would take him and his time close to two hours. And the travel home (varied if the buses had still been open), would grasp of an hour. They'd reflect with all the sunsets that slept, all for George, or never for George. He wasn't one to care. Never was that good.

So.. To say the least, the eye bags laid underneath his eyes along with his fatigue condition was to the fault of meek hours of sleep to an overworked and overwhelmed man. 

He is seldom indisposed, after all.

And to this very Friday, he hates the most. The crowds were always so rowdy at this time of the week.

The brunet fraughtly attempted to present himself the best he could. To how much time he had left to panick in, considering he had become failure against the buses and treched on foot. He combed back his hair with fingers, scorning to those that hadn't ceased with the other pieces. Picked away to strands, grumbling in the process. Stressfully, he fixed his sweatshirt of blue, trying to convince himself that the wrinkles and soda stain could dissapear in the darkness of the building. 

Then he frowned. "What—" He exhaled within a anguished sigh. As he grazed fingers against his cheeks, radiance of cold and pale. Desperately trying to pick off a piece of blue lint. He cursed a couple times just to relive himself.

Although he's rushed, it was safe. At least, he was safe here. In the employee's bathroom, singular and all to himself. The music from the band vibrated the walls and floors, but it didn't show any mind to the Brit. Who had creaked the sink's handles, allowing the splutter of water to flow. And with cupped hands, his palms overfilled with cold water, splashing it to his face soon after. A refreshment of sorts, if you will.

In the mirror, he jibes at the gentle cracks and ripples of glass taking shelter in multiple corners, ignoring the multiple immodest messages, song quotes, and phone numbers plastered shamelessly to the walls. Although, he snickered to the lipstick marks. They all reeked of erotic and leisurely stenches, something that wasn't all a familiarity. The air had suffocated him of burning alcohol, cigarette engravents, and hurried loosenings of chattering belts. Even then, George ran his hands through his hair, a small uncomfortable noise sung through his teeth.

He was alone.

Alone with cold and splintered air, stringing the shattered souls that distracted themselves of vibrating bass, just the same as he did. 

And for a moment, a very second, with water dripping from his chin and eyebrows, and fingers settled on opposite sides of the white sink to grip. He took closure of the security he felt.

So stressed it were to be. It made George fill with regret of all he has done and all he languished against.

Sucking in some crisp air, he exhaled heavily in return. Earning shakiness within his throat, as it tightened. A torture of burning eyes and quivering lips, he rubbed his sleeves against his cheeks. Until he was dry and cold, regretful and forgetting. Once again, and perhaps, forever.

Ah, not his exact plan for the path of life, of course, but he'd have to accept it at one point. Maybe this is as privileged his soul would allow him, with a shitty apartment and overwhelming work.

"Alright, come on," He grumbled to himself, gently slapping his cheeks. It wasn't motivating in the slightest, but it was enough for him to look away from the glaring mirror. And he made his way to the door, trembling yet prepared. 

Soon as he recalls, he had been carrying mics and wires within an excused box, held tightly as he struggled. Pushing apart past his other coworkers, watching as the majority smoked from lacking consent and some lazed with their duties. Smolder and sweat had coated the air, thickening and distracting. Making George grunt.

"Hey— hey, Deven!" A voice had called out, alerting him. 

With a distastful smile, he ushered himself to stop, despite the piled box trembling within his grasp. And he sighed. Before leaning his head back, of a listless expression. Not to bother with a correction of his name, he only complied to the catching voice. "Yes?" He gifted a forced smile, to the other keeping a hold of his girl's waist. Lustfully clouded of his negligence of his job as stage manager.

"Be a lamb and fetch the light cues for the next guys," He hummed, the lady perched on his lap giggled. Clutching onto her ripped pantyhose, her eyes traveled up and down on George.

He could only image was pitiful thoughts she was having of him and what hauntingly, sinister jokes she'd snicker to the other once he had disappeared, it almost made the Brit nibble his lips. 

It was rather disappointing, if you were endowed of the eyes and view from the other workers and or guests. Shallow and weak within his clothing, as his manager would complain a recall. Simple and boring enough, he was a man of a blue sweater and black jeans. Already, his sleeves were stained of ash and dust, twirled with microphone wires. 

He was boring and he understood that. And rather it being humiliating, he took pride to it.

People all around him dressed in attire that made the flies in his wallet squirm and fidget. Of course, they had been dipped of overtaking black since the moment he's been employed, but hinted of ripped tights and or leggings. Chains swarming either their waist or necks, awfully noisy and flagrant. The expressionism of dyed hair, crazed tattoos upon bumpy skin, along with noses and lips punched of piercings. It was everything that George wasn't, unfortunately. And the best he could manage was a ring he was given from mother and a necklace of his identification card. And it dripped mediocre, tedious to the eyes and minds.

It burnt his cheeks of embarassment.

He frowns. "Isn't that Joel's job? I-I'm already doing Roxanne's preparation of microph—" His tongue sprout of protest, only to be cut off from the other's raspy croak.

"Bullshit." He chuckled, lifting a smirk, purely rooted from mockery.

To this, the brunet grit his eyebrows together, "Sir, I'm–"

"You're doing the cue lights, that's what you're doing." Interruption brought forth the demand, tinged from annoyance. It was a scoff, ones that have grown relatively used to. "Quit bullshitting me, it's annoying."

He buffered, a finger lifts to inquire more, but the stammer that posiened his voice ceased him. And with a glare given, he has been defeated. Yet again. And so, he whipped himself back around, no more words were built of courage to return. Alas, he was heading that way anyways, George might as well handle it. With no snarky comebacks and curses, he'd comply even if the clutch on the box turned his fingers white.

_Such a wasteful excuse as a manager_ , George sneered at the discard.

However, the ignorance is hourly flattery, after all. And although it wilted of his spirits, he forgave the pathetic liberty, swerving past others from the backstage to get to his spot. He cringed at the bass of electric guitar that throbed his eardrums, that being an aspect he wasn't so accustomed to. But as forgiveness, he heard the drumming to cease and the curdling screaming of a member to drop, cueing a familiar sound of a shreiking applause. 

George continued forth with lowering the lights, dimming shallow red mixed of green, as requested from the next band. For the ones making their way offstage, rudely pushing past George as his customings. He grunted through the process, losing a heap of breath from an edge of a guitar. Knocking perfectly at his lower stomach, a whine built into the thick air.

And before he was able to pour scorn onto the guitarist that caused such an ache, they were already ushered from the stage, scampering onwards. Exiting through the back, where only a closing door had been his steady demise. So typical. George only frowned, returning to his station of buttons. 

He only then, wishes for no more circumstances to settle to his knees. Awaiting for the next band to set up behind the curtains he's settled onto the stage. And he flicks various toggles and switches, arranging the specifications. 

A very two man band. And they strut towards center, flooding the area of strong smoke. 

_Whatever, let's just get this over with_ , George thought to himself with a tumble of eyes. 

Plucking up the box, he followed along to the stage, not bearing to look up at either of them, only containing himself with settling the instruments accordingly.

It's dark, and hard the maneuver around the encasings of amplifiers. Only a frail light of orange-ish red had been appointed, upon the drummer. Favoring the circular instruments.

"Hey, Sap, hand me my water," The nearest one had called, rather muffled. 

The other man quirked to it, fixating his fingers to a crinkled, plastic water bottle, before tossing it over.

"Thanks." Came forth the response.

George plopped the box to the floor, huffing at tangled wires. Not bothering for the glimpses of faces, they'd be gone in a clasp of time anyways. So he settled a mic near the drums, where one had sat, fiddling of his sticks. They twisted and turned, wrecking speed into a circle of brown. But he continued to talk to the other joined with him on the stage, ignoring the presence of the Brit.

"Idea for what song we're doing?" He questioned, his voice formed roughly.

George positioned the mic to his correct stance, high and perfect of audible claps. And soon, turning over to the other, who possessed an electric guitar. Ah.. electric guitar.

Neat.

"I dunno, dude," Responded a chuckle, recklessly appointed of a toothy smile George could practically hear. "Ah, let's just do the second we had on our list. I think it'll be good."

George pressed a knee onto the stage, thankfully wiped away of the past band's rubbish of poured liquor and thrown clothing, and eased his other to act as an aid. Lowered to the guitarist instrument, handling the mic plug. He admired the black bovver boots, however, with a raised brow.

"Alright," And with decision, they concluded.

George struggled with the plug of his mic box. With his shadow dawned from the taller, he stood on his knees longer than he had intended. Blinking away his frustration and panic. 

He'd always prod the metal, but he'd interfere with all but his desired, specified hole.

"Do you need help or something?"

To the question, George's air had been held. Perhaps slightly frozen to such, his fingers tensed. Until he scrambled himself to fasten the plug, even if avail and light prevented his continuation and pressure built in his stomach. Bubbling up a meek response of, "No, no—.. I got it."

That got silence overcome from the three, only to he companied by the shouts of the crowd and backstage chatter. Awkward and stressful, and crummy.

It had been until the wire was yanked from his fingers, quick enough for him to flinch. From fingerless, black gloves, that were enveloped of multiple metal rings. George scoffed to that, glancing up, but the glare from the lights prevented him of the sight of one's face. Despite it, he squinted his displeasure. 

"Don't be a dick," George spat, tone oozing annoyance.

The other had relaxed a shrug, "You couldn't put it in, dude. Don't get mad at me," He admits, the brunet watching as the other proceeds to plug in his guitar for the speaker. With a gentle test, stringing along some chords. Loud and unexpected, sprouting a wince from the brunet but cheers granted from the other side of the curtains.

The calm and almost passive aggressive response didn't sit prettily with George, as he rolled his eyes. Although, he noticed a knot within the wire, causing a grunt. So he grazed his fingers towards it, looping along to undo it. But with a lifted hand, finished of untangled strings, he brought his palm down. A fine wire, unmangled and free, catching a small smile from George. He stood up contently, a foot stepping as the other one sunk strangely. Unable for it to move, he staggered, his foot caught within the wires he had just untangled. Betraying him and pushing him to a fall.

That alerted the other who held the guitar, wincing as George crashed into him, clutching his hand. The both of their torsos colliding with one another. So sudden. 

"The fuck—" George grimanced, holding carefully upon a grip of black cloth, knocking his nose to a collarbone. Curse this dark stage, he wanted it to rot away from humiliation. He sneered his irises downwards at the wire, deathly taunting and intimidating. "What the fuck—" He barked, as if it were to be the inanimate object to be at fault.

"Oh shit," Sprouting the other, still holding holding onto the other for George's support.

The seconds ran long, and his breath shortened. Amusing himself that he tripped and fell into another, breaking a fall with a chest and aiding arms. His fingers held to a bicep, to which the brunet flinched to. An unexpected approach. A rather unpleasant way he'd like to introduce one's self. A step back was to be his defense, as he finally whipped his head up, open to the person who he'd so unexpectedly fallen to. Pulling away from him.

"You okay?" The concern dribbled in such a voice made George shrivel. As if the two weren't bickering just a moment ago.

This man had been of expected attire, none different than others settled in this theatere. And yet, it's rather capturing. From the singular, weak red light that dawned upon the drummer, George was able to preoccupy his eyes to the guitarist. Low-waisted, gashed jeans hugged his legs, a belt buckled of a circular smiley face with stubs of spikes strung along the leather wrapped loosely amongst his pelvis. He wore a coal-colored sleeveless crewneck, tight and reaching. The length was roughly short, as it revealed an inch of skin. A jacket of leather, decorating of various more metal spikes and or stubs, along with most-likely intentional rips collided. His chest clung to jumbo jewelry, marking noise with his every move. Everything and everything that had made George struggle a gulp.

It had been, until he tilted his head once bringing a focusing attention to his face. Well.. A mask, if he were to say, imprinting of a smiley face. A smiley face resembling the one residing on his characterized belt.

George blinked to the white mask of a smile, finding it oddly eerie. Although, he spot the string that tightened around scruffy, blond hair. Puffed out from the huge mask, but it only confused the other once more. 

He took a moment to regain himself, embarassment converted to heat within his face. How long had he been engrossed on the other's appearance?? And all he could feel was his sheepish dismay. It traced his breathe. It clouded his air, blistering away the nausea in his stomach.

George cringed to the applying worry, and the hands that were held out towards his hand. An offering of help, which arranged his furrowed brows.

The other man on the drums grew interested into the scene, turning back and forth between the blond and himself. Glancing over to him, George analyzed him, as well. He was a brown haired, a bandana rounded the fluff of hair, keeping all intact. He, too, was slung of overwhelming accessories at his neck, fitted from a droopy, orange t-shirt that was plastered of odd, blackened designs. 

He held tighter against the side of his palm, whining to their situation. How stupid of him. Tripping upon a wire, how idiotic, it's shaming to the name.

And once more, the masked man questioned, "Are you okay?" He had asked, yet again, and George shuffled his feet. The other was still worried, carrying it generously in his voice.

"I'm okay," He sighed, rapidly collecting himself before he scurried his direction offward the stage. Briskful in his steps, as he already overstepped their marking time to show. And even if he was angry to the other, he hasn't a right to present such. It was unnecessary, and dumb. So rather than be to eachother's neck, he disposed words of unneeded emotion.

He noted that hesitation of the man, who looked back to the drummer and to George once more. Sensing his eyes darted against the side of his head, he turned over. Easing the aggression in his eyes, and melting into slight assurance.

It had been one single glance, again to the lanky other. And rather, it annoyed him as much as that wire had. So he granted an ignoring turn, presenting his back so he couldn't see him anymore. And only to various buttons and light cues on the wall, was what he was meant for.

With moments of anticipation and the wrapping of his bruised mind, the curtains had flown up. Revealing the two, who had positioned themselves of their stage precense. 

Everything had been dark. From the center stage, to the house. The roar of the crowd stings the ears of George, finding himself to be colored surprised to how excited the people were to be. More than all other nights, they were, girls screeching and men shouting no condolences to their rowdy nature.

Loud, active curses and hands flown to the air, waving and held in awe to the stage. Where the red light only drank within the drummer, who held his head low. Whilst the rest of the stage, was swallowed into darkness. George couldn't even see his own hand if he had held it out.

As they started, George quirked to the camera flashes. Not of the crowd, but from their created music, a back track to the beginning. Odd opening for a song, and yet, it sought for an unruly strung guitar. Whirring it's tune loudly that it ran all along the walls.

And it stole the breathe from all around. It was inconsiderate and unkind, harshly pulsing your chest. 

"See them walking hand in hand across the bridge at midnight," The voice calls out, rather raspy and low. To which, a cue shot another light on, a green light. Where once was darkness and an abyss of a man, sprouting the image of the masked other. Slung against the mic stand, his fingers are pinned with a pick against the electric guitar. 

His positioning lowered, to where the tune ran short and abrupt. Along with the drums, cutting off. Briefly beholding bundled silence. Before a sharp scratch of the guitar had been played, calling along the many lips than sang along with him. "Heads turning as the lights flashing out are so bright," He hummed, indistinctly coughed though grit teeth.

And to this, is where George would've been venturing back to the continuation of tasks. Consider it the job of the other's and stressful occupations.

And rather..

His feet wouldn't move, and he kept his stare upon the one on stage. Capturing of an upper green luminescence, lowering his neck to a mic as he hit his guitar of more tumult.

"She walks right out on a four line track, there's a camera rolling on her back,"

He sings. And George nibbles his lower lip.

Unable to grasp himself away from such a precense, he finds himself wary. It's odd. He doesn't quite understand it. And within the backstage of a useless, barren worker, it's more like he's partaking in something dangerous. More dangerous than stinging liquor, more dangerous than chalky lines.

"—On her back..!" The masked man repeats, roughly.

No, no.. Perhaps not something dangerous. He feels worse than that. He feels.. entranced.

"And she senses a rhythm humming in a frenzy,"

George is deathly entranced.

"—All the way down her spine— spine— spine— spine— spine.." The repetition of the word grow louder with every one thrown. Menacing to his tongue, violating the crowd.

Again, brief silence from the alert of a cut off strum. And the two had posed for a moment. The drummer had lowered his head once more, strands of black hopping as how reckless he preformed it to be. Along for the masked fellow, his neck cocked. And that smiley face was met with a tinted fate of the green, which grew darker. 

George leant against the wall, watching an Adam's apple bob.

"Girls on film!! Girls.. on film—! Girls on film—!" He had cried out, following along with the crowd. For they screamed every word, exciting and drummed the floor of volume. "Girls on film, girls.. on film, girls on film—!" 

George gawked, sliding his tongue against his lips, his inhale of air holding together of a tensile manner.

The guitarist stepped slowly to the side, keeping the lock of imitating eye contact to the crowd. Every step was harsh, so predatory. Gripping the mic stand, dragging it along with him. A single finger glides down the strings, a humming echo complimenting the aura. And those lips pressed to the metal, "Lipstick cherry all over the lens where she's crawling.." the reverberation hummed into the underlining beat.

He leans over. Over the stage, beyond the audience, the people astonished to the figure above them as they whipped their hands out. "Loads of sharp blue water coming on as she lies.." His voice grows rather hoarse towards his ending note, a performative whine that George admired. His movements slow and almost gentle, until critically growing swift, once more.

Through the smudged instrumental, it's brought back to life, revived from a strum. It would've made cracks in the wall if he weren't had been too careful. 

"The diving man's coming up for air  'cause the crowd all love pulling dolly by the hair," Swift with pronunciation, everything that was gifted into the song was so smoothly inquired, the words inscribed themselves into the planks of wood below them. They devoured the crowd evilly, a degree of selishless from what they spat from. The masked man held himself back to the stage, pressing a knee onto wood. The stand of the mic made of a tilted angle, copying him.

And it's supported with his leg, perfectly aligned to his lips. A free hand traveling to the back of his own head. The locks of yellow were intruded by a fingerless, gloved hand. Tangling into before yanking his head back, modeling and striking to arouse the screeches and shrieks.

"—By her hair!"

George gulped. And he fumbled with his fingers nervously, enchanting to the man. He didn't have time for inner sheepish thoughts, as he followed along the other who hopped up from the floor. Correcting his fingers to chords of an electric guitar.

"And she wonders how she ever got here, as she goes under again— 'gain— 'gain— 'gain— 'gain—!" 

George presses harder into the wall, his arm holding off it's ache. For he pondered along the scent of sweat and cigarettes. A light fog interfering with the stage, albeit it tasted of temptation. An awakening to a performance, flawless to the eye.

"Girls on film—!" He shouts happily.

"Girls on film—!" The people bark amongst themselves.

"Girls on film.." The last of it was aided from the drummer, who leaned into his own mic. And the phrase had echoed. Along the people, who repeated the words. 

"Two minutes later.." The masked man groaned of a high pitch, amused at the joyous screams he got in return. And he threw a decorated, middle finger to them, so endearingly. "Girls on film.. Girls on film.." He alternates his mic from his lips and to the sky of the house. The crowd overtaking his words to the line. It's surprising to the chemistry created, the atmosphere had been a rebellious wreck since he's been up on stage. 

And the muffled of noises come forth, where the man had chuckled into the mic. There are shouts and they're overbearing. And whilst the pause of his singing chorus, the smiley face wobbles from the intentional stumbles of the owner. Boots pressed firmly to a floor, rattling George's body. And he gazes with such interest as he yanks the mic from the stand, kicking it over afterwards as it were now useless. The wire hugs around his neck, and his fingers linger there for a while. They are sprawled to his neck, crawling against it. Soon tugging as the hem of his leather jacket, letting it droop from his shoulders. And the collarbones glisten of sweat, they glisten of need, and George blinks to his mouth running dry.

He's villainous in his position, holding the handle of the mic so tightly, "Voices in your body coming through on the radio.. ah— ah— ah— ah— ah— ah— ah—!"

It's a gust of wind. Relentless to George's cheeks and his legs grew rather weak. He'd feel the uncanny sensations afterwards, but as of now.. the brunet swallows from his tightened throat at the other's performative moans. 

"Wider, baby, smile and you've just made a million.." Ignored of roaring of the people, he sung. As he begins to lean back, nothing but smoke supporting him. 

"Fuses pumping that shit coming out on a wire.."

Flexibility is granted to the man, and he perched himself in a weakened, arched back. Bending and leaning, so smoothly, he made it look so easy. His pelvis had thrusted out steadily, they pressed against his guitar. Curving himself, with boots gripping the floor. But as he does, George softly gasps at skin. He widens his honest eyes to a face. Rather than the mask, revealed in a mixture of green and red light..

"Take one last glance into the night," 

He spots an eye. And lips. Correlated of his words. Freckles had been unlimited, and they illuminate. The brunet hadn't realized that within the curve of the masked man's back, he stared intensely to George. 

"I'm touching close, I'm holding bright," 

He hums, his tongue clicked deliciously. He winced when he came to the realization, his intent eye contact was to him. He weakened to it. And those hungry, lidded eyes were the culprit.

"Holding tight—!" 

He growled into the metal, diabolical that all his attention was only imprinting to George. 

Spotting an evil smirk. With lips curled into words melted so sickenly seductive.

"Give me shivers in a whisper.."

George hadn't able to deny the bubbling feeling of his gut, and the sensation made his throat choke more. As the draws of air refused to be inhaled. And it was ruthless. The stare didn't apologize, and it held George frozen. Perfectly. Right where he wanted.

It's overwhelming..

"Take me out like a shooting star..."

Overpowering, controlling, he couldn't bear it. 

And he couldn't focus his eyes, as they've gone rather blurry and dazed. Only heed to those eyes, eyes he could practically drown in. He didn't know if he could still hear the blaring music of drums and technologic tones, or the precense of an overstocked crowd or drummer. 

He only saw him. He felt him. 

He's never felt something so dangerous before.. Even if it had been exciting to an experience.

Never had George felt his heart's beat violating his ears, or such a quiver in his lips, or a strained uncomfortableness from tight pants.

Shred of intimidation and a daunting featured man, he's a darling in the light. It's nothing that George has ever seen, completely indifferent and uncanny of nature. A singlehanded possession of his thoughts and mind, throughout the remaining hours of his shift.

The dryness in George's mouth left reminisce of want and need into flavor, reminding of how he had been manhandled by a single glare. 

Of course, George attempts to distract himself, as he cleans off the bar counters. Preventing himself to pinch his nose of strong alcohol and substances. So he clenched the rag, angry of the inordinate thoughts that have bubbled and bounced into his skull. Never was he to be to indulged of encouraged, igniting arousal. It made George scorn and frown upon ridiculous disgust.

Alas, he was promised of regret the moment he decided to stay and watch the performance. Perhaps it was his fault, one may conclude, but George pinpointed the blame to the masked man. 

"George," A voice alarming him, halting the scrubbing on the counter. Which had ending up oozing supplementary moisture and light bubbles, earning glares from customers that weren't viewing the stage behind them. 

"Yeah?" He noted, already knowing he were to be thrashed of his mistake. He kindly blinked his eyes to the bartender, inching the rag away from the damp surface. Guilt lying within a nervous chuckle.

"Quit it, dude," He grunts, "Clean that shit off.." Came another order. To which, George nodded obediently. Briefly tearing away some paper towels, and scampering to wipe away all that he's grown forgotten to.

Overhearing a pouring of a drink, he's surprised when he spots a small glass slid to what he just cleaned off. Caramel of a color and reeked closure. He turned over to the tender, raising a brow.

"You're stressed, man," The worker states, George scoffing to how obvious he were to be. How embarrassing. What a pitiful smell. "That's on me. Just take out the trash, will you? And.. Get some sleep," The gruffly voice commented, adding a small, "Really, you look like you need it."

He fixated his eyes to the glass, sucking the air of such ecstasy and mercy, and he ends up squandered into a puddle of pity. Sighing heavily as he pressed the cup to his lips, downing the stinging drink. 

He handles his thanks in the form of a nod, rounding the bartender to heed himself of the trash and off to the hallways. Making his way around couples making out or endorsed ones grasped by drugs, he ushers himself to the key slot. The bag slung, careful to not think of the condiments poisoned within the stink.

The music is faint, but it's comforting as company. To which, he can finally hear the noise of his shoes, answering him with every step. And it rang in his ear, ringing and returning. Finally, a relief.. away from such a loud crowd, to where it's only petite silence. All George could think about is his bed and warm blankets, despite they being pathetically worn out. Anything is better than cold clouds and a darkening night, even if it meant referring to a pitiful mattress.

He swerves around a corner, to where he aims to a room which was kept for the workers. A kind gesture that the manager opened out, for it was an empty room. Once, it had been commended for the collection of dust and dead bugs. But now, it was vacant to the employees to about their way. Perching the garbage bag on the ground neatly, he entered the room. Swiftly tearing away his scarf and black jacket from a counter, making sure he avoided the scratching fingernails and twitching bodies of a couple. He had scrunched his nose to the disgusting moans, as he had ever been fond of. But to the aging day, by forcing agony, he had been accustomed to it. Never was it to be uncanny, but boring and typical.

Warm within a thickened embrace of wool, the door flung close, and George nabbed the trash bag that was awaiting for him. 

Now that George handles himself kindly, he softly bobbed his head to obscure, rattling drums and a screaming voice, everything he didn't have to deal with tomorrow. Although, he continues to bite the inside of his cheek just for the taste of relief. Something sweet and something to wedge such a restless of an allaying need. Perhaps a drink, is what he craves? The unwinding luxury of slumber? Take out foot that wasn't greasy of its sustenances? George grumbled gently. He grit his jaw, swinging the trashbag mildly, as he trot freely through the marble floor. 

Nothing to brush away lasting words imprinted into his mind, to clean away such a sinful stare of that blond earlier. It had haunted him since he'd left the stage in a flurry. Such a song, such a stage he took over, George groaned. And yet again, reminisces to the sliced heat glares of green. He groaned once more, distasting of his benevolent conceptions. They didn't appeal to him. He didn't like how they made his head hurt. He didn't like how it made his cheeks swell of flushed warmth. 

_Why did he look at me like that.._

George inhaled, clenching unwelcoming fingers to the thin clasp of the garbage. 

_Why did I look at him like that.._

They were so deep and innermost. George thought of it to be stupid that he scoffed to the image of his eyes that kept replaying in his mind, drearily. He bit his tongue to that, refusing his brain and soul. Nevertheless to a concluding night, he'd just forget about it in the morning. Never will he have to feel anything of a stuttering heart or have to hear a erotic song ever again. Shrinking away to the fluttering stomach, there it is. Finally.

The relief he'd want to taste.

George hummed, cocking a lip up. Never to see that man again, or to be so enclosed and trapped from scorning lyrics tied to a raspy tune. 

The door lodged in front of him, the escape to susurrous wind and numbing fingernails. And so, he propped his hand onto the handle, amidst in his head. And he turned, throwing it open.

But to abrupt and unclear terms, he finds himself to stumble, feet rooting into concrete floor. Fallen into the midnight sky, trampled of stars and thin air.

And he's surprised to a blond, stood by the door. As he too, was inflicted of widened eyes at the sight of George. And he flinched at their gaze, unprepared for the wonder. 

"Oh."

And oh, indeed.

Lo, to the one he tried to elude from his head and seep that dangerous fear out of his pores, he seemed to come intact yet again.

He's implanted harshly from smothering wind, brushing away his own strands of brown and burning his stretched eyes. The expectancy was meek to the reality, and he just wanted to curl his arms into himself. Becoming a ball of shame and wilted passion. 

Again, George remembered a red light. And a green light. And how they merged together so  fucking perfectly. He remembers how that leather jacket hung by his arms, peril to sharp collarbones. And to sweat that dribbled of disagreeing lust. George remembered how he gripped that microphone so unyielding to where his viens broke through of his very skin. Whatever swung of that body, the microphone was never to be dropped, always tightened in his grasp. He was ruthless, his vigilance was misty and dripped into wood planks of a stage floor. In favor of a performance George couldn't forget no matter how many drinks he had. Lidded gaze of sensual concealment. Chapped lips connecting to a mic unforgivingly. George remembered it all. And he loathed of all that he is just to be in front of the other once more. And that relief he once tasted had decayed, leaving his mouth dry and hungry. 

"Oh?" The man responded with a raised brow, assorted of a softened chuckle.

But, this time, George processed the face in front of him. Uncovered and free, sharing piercing wind with him.

His mask was gone, and had left bare. George plastered himself to freckles speckled to cheekbones, and he was proposed of green eyes. Green eyes he remembers, too. Where they had once been heated so enigmatically, indulged of a shadowing figure, but now were just as simple as him. Smudged black eyeshadow buried into his ending corners, sparking veneration. Considerably squared, that jaw was, but oh how it was serrated. They had been accompanied with familiar blond hair. With lips that once layered themselve to a leisure mic, now to a cigarette. And he blew the inhaled dust and disgust into the slits of air. Finding their uninvited place in the twirls of wind, gushering into George's unaware expression. A pressed back to a brick wall and kicking at leaves that dressed themselves onto his boots, distastefully. As a guitar case was leaned against the wall next to him, naturally.

"Oh.." It was all George was to repeat.

Because why..

Why. Why.  Why . Why was he here? What exactly was he to say to the motherfucker? Preparation was never to be an option, and that glides menacingly against his neck. His fingers slide to his collar bones, unknown to what he does next. "Oh," Again, he had dumbly repeated. That earns him a soft and amused grin.

"You weren't supposed to see me without it," The other had sighed, breaking their eyes' connection to lift upon his cigarette. "Dammit.." He cursed.

With the language of confused, wide eyes, he tore them away from him, throwing to the concrete. Decorating nicely of black spots from rotted gum and cracks. "Huh?"

The other shook his head, running his fingers through his hair, the wind helping him. "My mask."

Cermet and round, white mask. Painted of a smiley face. George could never forget something like that. And he caught glimpses of it in between the other's fingers, the strings released to be wavering from the air's gusts. 

"Your mask?.." Dense to their situation, George only tilts his head. The hold upon the trashbag hadn't ceased, as it was motionless in his palms. Until he slowly presses it neatly onto the perch of the door, allowing for it sit neatly within a center of a lamppost's light. Discarding it to abandon. 

"Ah.. Yeah," Sheepishly, the other grinned. "It's like—.. Y'know.. Kinda my thing." He admits.

Of interest, George becomes transferred to it, pursed lips drew himself of the feeling. Glancing back to the mask, he hummed into the wind. Dawning himself attentively, his feet move without the conversion with his brain, and they step carefully towards the other. 

"Uh.. You won't tell anybody, yeah?" He questioned, lowering his cigarette as George perched himself closer to where he was to be. The lamp appeared tight enough until George was out from the light of frame. An attempt of desperately clasped to the brunet's body until deemed pointed. Gone and into the dark, where he joined the maskless one. 

George processed the request, until he kindly nodded. His eyes honest and true to his words. "Oh, yeah. Promise." He muttered, staring up. 

_Tall._

_Defiantly tall._

The two of them are silked of the tender silence, lingering them along with the cold. It's smothering George away even if he is soundless to his lips. They present little, and his next actions and speech is unknown against the odds. 

Soon enough, he is greeted with an open hand, a palm benignly set in front of him. George winced lightly of the gesture, traveling his sight onto the other with a rather arched neck. His own nervousness hard to depict. 

"I'm Dream," He introduced, to the convenience.

_Dream.._

"..I think I remember you.."

_It suits him.._

George blinks. Still rather dazed for no sort of a rationality. Until he clutched the hand, chewing his inner skin from the globe and bitter metal that consumed each finger.

Yet, the brunet had hummed, unusually tainting his voice of natural charm. "Yeah," He had agreed, their palms shake warmly. "You were the jackass that yanked the amp plug from me." He smirks. Cocking an eyebrow at bumpy skin of fingertips. He eyed the bandaids that laid around the skin. Odd.

"'Jackass' is a little harsh, don't you think," He chortled at the remark, unraveling their fingers. 

The Brit smiles. "I suppose 'jackass' is underwhelming," George concluded, leaning back. 

"Alright, now you're just being dramatic.." Comes forth a gentle chuckle from the blond.

Dream inhaled some more of his cigarette, a witness to ash that ate up the white stem. Soon, allowing it to be swept into wind and beyond. Stars that watched over the two coated from the grey breathe. 

Dream turns to George once more, tired eyes consuming him, "What did you think of the show?" He asks, modestly.

It's a question that not even George had asked himself. Perhaps, he was terribly caught up with distractions and ripping him away from thoughts unbearable. 

Lust and a performative greed, a lanky figure that aroused the crowd to their tip-toes, beguile lyrics that pricked his arms of dots that oozed desire. God.. That stare. That stupid  fucking glare.. So taunting, that George got lost in the radiating chorus. A replacement to sickening reveries, a competition of nightmares, all to taunt and misshape every thought George constructed.

_It was hot._

"Eh. Mediocre," George returned, with a shrug. Shying away his chagrin cheeks of flush.

There is quiet above the procession of the answer, until a singing hum is heard. "Is that so?" Dream smiled, tossing the cigar to the floor, squishing it upon impact. "That little stare that we had didn't really think that.. Hm?"

George tensed to his words, teeth grit against eachother ruthlessly. And he couldn't help but roll his eyes, despite his thoughts becoming quarrelsome. Bashing and bruising his head.

Yeah, jackass definitely didn't define such a character. Moreover, bastard fits him. He's a prick. 

But George breathes in through his mouth loudly, stretching out his shoulders through awkward air. "Why are you out here alone? Your band ended like thirty minutes ago."

Dream shrugged, "I'm just waiting for Sap to get the car. I can't really walk."

That pricked the brunet of confusion. Furrowing his able brows, and his gaze shot down to where his boots were. One foot out from it's warmth of a holding, exposed to relentless, sour cold. 

"He sure is taking his time.. He can't pick up his ass for shit," A sigh came through, dripping annoyance.

"You fall or something?" George asked earnestly, maneuvering his head.

With a lazed exhale, Dream shook his head. "I have a blister on my heel," He says, an finger extending down, inching his foot out a tad. "I'm gonna have to get my foot amputated if Sap doesn't hurry up with the fucking car."

George flexed his lips, the nerves curving them, sternly and firm to his mouth. And he sucked some air through his teeth, whilsting out in the process. "That looks bad."

"Yeah, it hurts like hell, too." Dream added in his comment. 

An understanding overcame the two, but George had dug his hand within his pocket. Roughly searching within a spacious sack, until he pulled out multiple bandaids. Packaging still encased, but he presented them with altruistic fingers.

Dream perked up, blinking at the multiple of amounts layered from his fingertips. "What's with the bandaids?" He snorted, slipping them from the Brit's hand, a thanking nod gifted soon after.

"I work with sharp objects everyday, wouldn't be safe for me not to carry them around," George answered, nibbling his nails. "Considering I could get crushed by a light any second. Y'know?"

Dream unwrapped a large bandaid, stuffing away the extract of paper into his own jeans. "That's a death. Not a wound or blister. I don't believe a bandaid would help that."

It's a gentle titter emitted from George's lips, drinking in the sounds of cars and roaring tire screeches. "Hm.. Yeah, I guess," He agreed. "But just a precaution so that the place doesn't get sued or have a lawsuit on their hands."

"How quaint." Dream hummed.

"Mhmm.."

There is a moment where they regain wholly wind, yet again. As the blond caked bandaid over bandaid to his heel, consuming himself of low grunts and sharp inhales. Pained from such an agonizing blister of red. George blossomed his frown sympathetically. 

With a timeful gleaming, glare of lights, George glances over to the corner of the building, where a car emerged and appeared. It reared round, dangerous within a tire scriek, the side view presented in front of the two. Dream bounced his head up, his hood catching atop his head. And George only grows unfamiliar to the person within the drivers seat, who lowered the window, boggling his eyes to George. In a rather panic, specifically. 

"Finally," Dream scoffs, throwing a flailing hand into the air once he finished the coverage of a wound. "Freezing my ass off. It's cold out here."

"Who's that?? Why don't you have your mas—"

"Chill, Sapnap." Dream yields a palm to him, stringing out his signaling word of calming. It soon melted into a groan, loud and grating. "He's just staff." He says simply.

The man gripping the wheel, supposedly named Sapnap, glanced to George. Eyeing him up and down, unclear to his position or reasoning. And George couldn't really say he knew either. To why exactly he had a brief conversation with the other. An explanation was questionable. As he stood frozen under the glare, until waving an unsteady hand. Although, agitation sinking him into the wind. 

Dream clutched the hook of his instrument bag, and he's careful when he limps to the door opened by the one inside. Bending himself over acutely, he scoops his body into the leather brown seat, settling nicely. And he sighed, eager for his foot to rest in the warmth of a car. 

George watches intently, unsure for his next actions. Shall he excuse himself now? It was late, he should be getting himself along home. Late nights meant missed buses and missed buses means the higher possibility of getting himself in guttering peril of robbery. For it wasn't good, and he didn't want to be late for tomorrow's shift like he has foolishly done today. 

"Hey."

George winces to the blond's voice. Soothing to his ears and carving away the wind that blew noisily. Nigh for a dear comfort. 

With a short turn of his head, he's strained against an image that he'd dread to see again.

Against a headrest, lazed of little mannerisms, is Dream's head. Effortlessly reeling the brunet into the trap he had been trying to tear away from all night. Of hunger, and of a foreign message, those dark eyes have found their weakening solution. Medicine to George's flutter of heart, and take him of evocation. They taunt and they flee of amusement, all effortlessly. An ambush gaze that sunk himself, persistent and unforgettable. Dream grinned at the lost expression, continuing his words.

"Tell me your name. You never told me." He said, true to his request. 

It takes George a second or two to regain the consciousness he's lost to his eyes, stuttering his blinking lids. Ushering that stupid endearment he felt, feelings like that are meek and not meant for him. 

"George." He murmured. The wind was whistling and sighing against his lips, deeming them to turn blue if he were to stay out for more longer.

"George." The blond hummed.

Dream raised his brows, that smile becoming a deathly margin. And his stare is dear, consuming the brunet. Admiration brinked.

"George.." He echos warmly. 

And the Brit would've been flattered from the repetition if it wasn't for the confusion that built into his muscles and introduced a twisted look.

"Hey, George," Dream hummed. "Need a ride?"


	2. amongst decaying light.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frustration bubbles violently within George, containing him of his piling anger.  
> And he finds his glares to be upon the blond, desperate and futile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beginning notes....... uhhh.... about to start finals i guess? or whateva :P so if the next update slow then don't shit urself my dears, im just struggling over a mf named math  
> ALSO!!! to the first nine readers [edit. now 11?!?!?!?!?! :0] and 1 bookmark person that have read my story on the first day i have posted the work(WOW) im so thankful and love u so so much !! means a lot, i appreciate it !!

"He said right—"

It was a rather comfortable backseat. For the discarding and feeble seconds that he sits tensely in his seat, perched correctly and overwelmingly polite to his nature. He is careful not to muddle the instruments that were slanted next to him, cautious if he were to inch an incalculable movement and mush the neatly stacked guitars, he'd never forgive himself. And he'd be collected to nonsense and embarrassment.

"I'm  _going_ right.."

The car buffers for a moment, halting abruptly to the breaks. George is tilted slightly, and grips tighter to the door handle. 

"The other fucking right you _fucking_ idiot—!"

Albiet a night traced of such beauty and undeniable grace, the bickering amongst the two in the front seats caused the brunet to peel his eyes from the window. Away from street lamps littered to every corner, and the pappy clouds that traveled the midnight in solitaire. Wary from a weak finger that perked up, his eyes chary against the directions the car swerved from. 

Questionable to his placatingly timbre and kind enough to inquire, his mumble is awful and quiet. "I—I said left.. Actually.."

Sapnap groans with an arched neck, plopping it to the headrest, catching the black locks. The grip from the steering wheel released, an idiotic decision of his making, and the car begun to dance unaccordingly. Slightly swerved to a direction, causing George to flinch his widened eyes. That is, until Dream caught ahold of the wheel, correcting their distance. Tired and bored, as if they weren't driving on the wrong side of the road for a second. 

Sapnap recollects his position with the wheel, navigating it against a stoplight. Until he turned to the left, sighing heavily. "See, Dream? I was going the right way, dude."

"Goddamnit, Sapnap." Dream only responded, crossed arms and a lazed neck that curved riddled of its annoyance. Displeased to their situation. 

"What're 'Goddamnit, Sapnap'ing me for?? You're the one who's giving me wrong directions," He yapped, rounding the white lines. And George admired the cars that flew by him, a tad tense to their speed. "I was literally going the right way," 

Dream scoffed, "Yeah. The  _right_ way. Not the  _left_ way, because George said—"

"—Dude, just shut up."

The turn Sapnap produced was dangerous and left a heap of air in between the tires and a cluttered street, George nibbling his bottom lip from his gut hopping. The streetlights soon became distant blurs, and concrete was puree of darkened grey. Only troubling the brunet even more than his heart could handle, pummeling to his chest, he'd expect aching marks upon his torso if this had continued. 

A high-pitched voice returned to the blond with mockery, fiddling of the nerves of the other, as he cut his own sentence short. Grunting of dismay from childish indulgence, Sapnap's mimicking filled the car. 

George quietly watched the two. Along the arguing of the two men for about twenty minutes, you soon find yourself to be with accommodation to carelessness. So he leaned himself against the edge of the window's formation, settling his cheek to a cold palm. Only listening to the others, finely used to it for the moment. 

Watching against deadpan irises, they flickered beyond Sapnap and Dream, bought bored to their time. As he had become relatively drowsy to the lowering of the moon. Craving only his blankets and uncomfortable pillow more and more, even his stomach plead and grumbled.

George sluggishly blinked, finding himself encased to the upper mirror, spotting Dream's. It's a tad tense, as he received the retention from his show, against his mind to replay all that he felt. But Dream glimpses to George, eyes building soft. "You okay back there, George?" He asked, balmy to a light tone almost as clean as the sky. 

George shrugged. Little occupied with such, his gift of such a vainless character made him roll his eyes. As he just wanted to go home and sleep within elastic uneasiness.

Either way, George sighed. Weighted greatly and wearily ill.

"You just passed by it, Sapnap," George grunts, using his drained utter as a response. Towards the glance of a worn out building of various windows, either shattered or poorly patched of timber planks. Plastered to a barrier of odd noises and ideals. However, following down below. An entrance of doors, but disingenuous to the name, as trashbags crumbled and overpiled the meek metal of a can. People scampered by swiftly and paid no glimpse of the terrible buildings and houses. Shamefully rusted to his scrunched expression, George sucked in his breathe. 

Curtly uncalled, the tires squeak defeaningly against a crusted street. "For the love of—" The gruffy grimace of the brunet's rung and bounced from the windows and seatrests. His fingers hastily nab for the knob held in the center, just above the glove compartment. And with a rough grip, he tugs it backwards. Chucking it into the reverse placement of option. Soon after, he slung his arm around Dream's seat, looking over his shoulder. Following along the street's and careful not to graze against parked cars as he reversed imprudently.

They buck at the inclinment of the lever, once more, the car clicked into its stop. Right in front of an apartment that was definitely not George's. The tires cried out, abused of screeching and leaving additional white engravements to the road.

George sat silently for a while, breathing in scent of stuffiness and sturdy smoke, coverage of cheap deodorant. Patient in his seat, he perked up at the two heads that turned around to gape to him. One of dried out politeness and the other of an easing glare. 

"Is here good?" Dream asks softly.

George fluttered to the house outside of his window, wiping away the discoloration of grey that met his view from frigid air. He peered at the small residency, tugging his lips down in expected disappointment. 

"Yep. Here's good." He stated in a heavy exhale, twisting the car door handle and rearing it open. It squeaked gently, whilst George crawled out, settling his feet to such habitual concrete pathways. 

George hummed, a gentle motion set to swing the door close. The reminder of such a pitiful home made him smile through his scoff. Familiarly aquaintted to the smell and feeling. Crispy and chilly, the wind blew prettily into his hair, twirling and twisting it affectionately. It flew past his nose, bringing along the scents of cigars and car gas. It wasn't at all comforting, but at least it revived him of his senses.

He turned upwards, admiring his windows that remained untouched, boasting against the other residences that haven't met the same fate. As he attempted to contain the cleanliness, not exactly catering that for the inside, however. Although, he scrunched his nose to the bird nest that rebuilt itself to his second window. George was not at all fond against the birds, they were awfully loud at the weirdest times.

But still, it was still home. 

Even if it was shitty.

George leaned himself down, peering into the rolled down window, to the men perched inside. "Thanks," He told them sincerely, fingers massaging against the back of his neck. 

Sapnap returned with an earnest nod, but the blond stood in silence.

Awaiting for a response, George blinked at Dream, who only had a stare to offer. His hair puffed against his forehead, intruding his deepened eyes. Wallowed in of a gaze that made George wring his fingers against a cold throat. The littlest of a grin formed from his mouth, twisted the edges of his lips. And he leaned his head against the side of the car door, snaking a hand outwards. Formed from the car, it slithered to George's own. His braclets cried out against the movement, his eyes only deemed more of the sickening intimidation, whereas those fingers took ahold of the brunet's. Tender inside his grasp, and rough at the sensation to itchy gloves and freezing rings. 

George blinked, drawing in influenced fondness. To a soft touch, those fingers practically burnt him from unexpectancy.

Dream's voice sang in his throat, leading George's hand towards nothing but obligatory susurrous segments of the lambet light that towered from a lamppost above. They hung to the weak of a bulb, a gaze unbreakable. A gaze unforgivable. It's unforgettable, and dear. 

"Take care of yourself, George," Dream mumbled, mellifluous against his tongue. And he squeezed George's cold palm, integrated with his the warmth from his own. 

The air feels harsher against him, afterwards.

"Ah.." George whispered, finding his vision structuring blurry. 

And George spots yet again, from what he saw on stage. From fears and the sustaining need, the trembling of chapped lips to wind tugging his sweater of folds, and all that he wants to forget.

A gaze capable of death.

Hidden from yellow hair and wiped eyeshadow, its that stare again.

"Yeah.." He agrees, nodding unknowingly. "Yeah.. Dream.." His tone is quiet. "..Thanks." Is all he's able to muster. 

That unblinking stare finally broken, disconnection striking. He cursed at himself internally, for being owned by something so foolish. He loathed at the fact that it weakened him, and built excitement within him. A thrill that'll forever be neglected.

George licked his lips at the feeling of a paper-like object tucked into his palm, although, he hadn't brought a glimpse against it. As his hand only dropped as released, fallen against his hip.

George scorned. Never to want to see those eyes again. While he pulled himself away from the car opening, staggering a tad.

He kicked by leaves and grass puffs that crawled from cracks of the concrete, and he took the steps to his door. They were fruitless and weighted him, as if each palpable stair were more fingers clutching his shoes. They tore and clawed against black sneakers, discoloring them to resemble the flush against George's face.

He felt such slowness in his movements, as if everything were to be futile. His keys felt like nothing but moisture of sweaty palms. Lodging the golden metal into it's designating slot, turning it cautiously. 

Albiet, rather annoyed to his tightened chest, he took the bravery of whipping his head back. Exhaling his uneasiness as he spot the car, motionless in the way he'd left it from. Dream still layering his irises to the Brit, just like the way he'd left it from. 

The diminutive amuestment was humiliating, even if it was regarded as unintentional. He knew it was unintended, but the irritation sought into expression. 

And it remains upon his face even when he struggles to clutch a chipped, golden knob. His discomfort placeholds an overdue stay, as he ventured within his home, slamming the door closed. Rattling his walls and ceilings above. He doesn't even care when he had alerted the dog and cat. He doesn't want to care, he doesn't need to.

And all relief that he relied on, was gone.

George presses his back against the door, sliding his body down aimlessly until he plopped to the floor. A carpet that he would've been glad to feel and see, but it's all pointless to his view. His hand ushered against his forehead, pressing harshly to the pores that bled his shame. And he leaned closer against a splintering, wooden door. Dipping his hand within his hair, scratching nails aflame in chunks of hair he gripped roughly. Ruthless enough that he feared he might tug the strands out, leaving ugly patches. Blurring away the messiness of his house, and only splintering his soul of the frustration he felt. He didn't remember the floor to be so uncomfortable.

He's deepened into nothing. Wasting what he had felt and emotions he rudely turned away. 

The little dignity he possessed ran into ash of cigarettes buds, blown in the smoke and pinned against bitterness. 

George shook his head, chuckling in disbelief that he felt so angry to reasons undisclosed. That smile was brief, before dying into a frown. And his teeth sunk within thin dermis, his hum tainted with satisfaction as he savored the taste of iron. 

"What the fuck—" He groaned against his wrist. 

The object in his palm made his hand twitch, as if a calling for providing care. Attention that needed not of squandering.

So George shot his eyes down, and they ran along the dented lines of his nails. Traveling from thumb to pinky, a desperate act of distraction to the inevitability of what was to be awaiting. 

His sleeves hung as he lifted his limb, silently falling, just like his gut. And as those fingers released the gifted wonders, George's lips jerked.

And he could feel the frustration drawing to his bottom lip, the slit of blood that oozed only tampered to a ruined man. 

George grimanced and he kneaded his hair once more, tugging at scalp faintly.

"God, he's so annoying.." The sigh came out relatively gentle, until easing into a vexed shout. 

Hastily bringing his legs to stand, he staggered along carpet, kicking away rejected clothes and blankets. He swerved along his cat that sat patiently, and he didn't bother to pet Dog's head. And he threw away all that frustration in a frail toss. The inscribes of a phone number was tossed mindlessly into an over-piling bin, while the fifty dollar bill was pressed against his counter. Leaving mystery that George was all too tired to ponder along. And he flew to his bed, discarding all he had to worry. 

He always knew he's hates Fridays.

——

For vanity's sake, it was all he could think about.

It was nothing but shit, to George's eyes. A confusing tumble against his accustomed lifestyle, never anything he'd want to deal with. Patience came in the beauty of a rarity to him. And rather, George never had the need for patience or rarity, at all. 

Drifting along the week, he'd journey into a bed that wouldn't gift him dreams. Useless against a sinking body, George would stare up to a moldy ceiling. Panting from the ill concern, whilst his eyes only grew wider and wider. Glancing from his pets that were witness to such distraught, to ugly paper plates, and to the dollar bill that remained untouched since the moment it descended to his kitchen counter. Having breakfast, he'd see it. Cleaning amongst his apartment, he'd see it. He came home, he sees it, and he can't help but to see it everywhere. 

It wasn't the situation of it haunting him, no. That was Dream's job. But it was an annoyance for him to keep around. 

It didn't make any fucking sense to him. To why, in any decision of the world, would he receive it from Dream. He didn't have it in him to find words for gratefulness. With all built up anger, he didn't even know if he lingered that feeling. He's being suffocated with the uncertainty. It's odd of him to be deeply invested of exasperation, instead of joy. 

But.. Maybe that's not exactly why he's been so distracted. 

_Take care of yourself, George.._

He could remember how gentle he was when he told him that.

_Fuck off, will you?_ George rolls his eyes of the internal thought.

Those words hurt so much. Even if they're genuine and kind to him.

During his hours, either setting up microphones or wiping at bar counters, it's always that idiotic blond looming to his head. Distractions failed for comfort, and it always came back to when they were together on that stage. It always came back to it, George couldn't escape such. 

Already used to gritting eyebrows, scorning against bands that hadn't played his song. He tore himself against the tang of liquor when he didn't hear a raspy tone of a lead singer. The bands that didn't consist of either Dream or Sapnap brought him to sigh.

Strange, enough. He didn't want to think of the other anymore. No longer, tacked to underlying thoughts.

He hated how it's so easy for his vulnerability to tower over him, and eat him away.

Intentions were never to begin with Dream, and yet, he overtook his thoughts. And George frowned against it, unhappy with his aching body. 

Dream is nothing but a person.

There is nothing sentimental about him. 

There's nothing to stress towards him. 

He was just a person. And the brunet wouldn't care if he were to leave or balter with death, because George only thought of him as another one granted to this world. A person. Pointless to his life, nothing for worth, George didn't need to mull about him any longer. He tells himself this too many times to count.

Or, at least, he tries to tell himself that. 

Even as he stretched himself against his sheets, he is a great simpleton. The night that reeked of no sleep. And George was okay with that. Because, today, his plans were long above him. He aimed to actually prove himself, bring value against his past and cowardly intentions he would've sulked to. Today, everything that he was with that blond is nothing but neglected memories. He prepares himself, prancing to a shower and wardrobe. It's a gentle welcoming of a woolen, blue long sleeve, as he does everyday. Tucking his neck away into a predictable scarf, holding accountability to dress warmly. He looms to his breakfast of a deserved banana, pouring the food for the pets. 

He smiles neatly underneath his scarf, chuckling softly. 

But, he hurries himself. Content with the time, the banana peel plops into the waste bin, crushing against senseless digits upon a paper. And his fingers prick to his counter, as he swirls to the tiles. They lifted him, and swelled his eyes of a great smile, that bill of green shoved into his pockets. 

He gulped away the irk of a hesitating tremble, swallowing all that he could let go. 

For today was Friday. Yet again.

He'd depart away from what was nothing, and what will forever be nothing.

And through a crumpled bus of others, and the maneuvering of his co-workers and tasks. The air is similar to how it was last week. The excitement of a crowd that deemed larger than last time, and scorching smoke that reclined to eyes and nose. Ordinary is all contributions. He travels past spiked hair and buds of silver, aimlessly to solace he'd soon be able to riddle in. Peering to the backstage. Spotting the similar color of a weak red. 

It's disappointment that crumbles into his stomach. And his fingers crush against one another, scratching to skin.

He's lost, once again.

Regretful to the stance at the side view of the stage, hidden in dark puddles of black. All of the plans for him to have nothing to do with the other, and to never indulge himself with the blond.. To humble himself and blind himself. Easily taken into smoke, he's lost. Stuck into Dream's eyes. Of those same lyrics, and from lips that they were spat from. He's back again, entranced. Yet again.

And he regrets his time of the Friday, as he's settled into the workers room. A shift that was grown into his own fruitless, embittered mind. He is defeated against a table. Shameless into his seat that he's sat in for so long, he expects imprints in the cushion once he'd depart. Hair pressed against the edge of the table, resting his cheek to the hardened surface. Rebounding his shaky breathes, tasting nothing but subdued envelops to liquor. His arms only cave around his cheeks, warm and rejected the lightbulb from above. He sunk into the silence of the room, although exposed to quiet humming of electricity.

Underneath the coverage of his limbs, eyelashes pluck up from sprung eyes. As if he's still trying to process all that there was to. Although, he's still provoked to a blank mind. And he can see nothing but white, embarrassed to that. 

He's careful when his body jerked lightly. And he recycled all emotions, difficulty amongst his heart beats. Carefully peeling away his torso from the border of the table, sluggish as if he were breakable. Soon, he's properly sat. Correctly and perfectly in his seat, gazing amongst the tightened area. He didnt want to think to empty glasses or the ashtrays that he desperately wanted to linger above, but he tries to relax. The strain in his throat clutching mercilessly. Before he's even able to inhale the emptiness, his body is slouching. Frail and curving into the back of the seat. Grunting a whine when the border of the seat cries out a cease.

_His eyes.._

George groans, crushing his face into palms.

_Why do I keep looking at him like that.._

He's angry and unsure of everything, and he can still feel the bill rested into his pocket. It tickled his thigh, and George only sunk lower into lassitude. And he chuckled, albiet tragically.

"..Who even is he," He asks himself breathlessly, into the room all sorted by himself. His tongue bounced to the ceiling, sticking there and not sending a response. "Who the fuck does he think he is."

And perhaps, that was the very cue for him to taste something other than his utter remorse. He had no need for feeling apologetic of himself, that itself, is twisted and unreasonable. 

He is gentle with himself, from slamming the door shut to stuffing his nose into a thick scarf. Aggression flickered at his steps, even as he adjusts his sweater folds. As now, he only wishes to go home and sleep. The only incline he offers, it's all he really needs.

But, he's nearing their exiting doors, heaving his desiring travel for home. And clutching his fingers within his pockets, the warmth growing of radiance. It's hope, and it's dreadful steadiness.

Footsteps that are formed from hostility buffer in their creaking movements. Sunk into the floor, all the eerie white in the hallways is slipping him away to the smoke of a cigarette. Accommodated with humming, a tune so reminding. Granted that, it was faint, but it was still Dream. 

Those steps wobbled, and he internally groaned. He waited in that employees room for nothing, it seems. He had hoped they the blond wouldn't have been gone by now. God.

Humming.

It grew louder, even if it were to be tender. 

George only scoffed silently, yanking his fingers from a pocket to itch along his eyelids. Only after, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Smiling, defeat plastered to straight teeth. 

"Hi.."

He swings the door, not caring if it were to be loud. His mind had been well enough that it'll alert Dream no matter how nice he was with the handle, all pointless to his fingertips. It'll crash within the spiraling brick despite circumstances.

George glanced to Dream, who stood a tad surprised at such an abrupt opening of the door, met with a fate of angry and exhausted eyes. 

"Hello." George returned, his lips form altered of a forged smile, as the listless need of his expression continued. 

Content was parishes in Dream on the wooden bench, his figure almost a disappearing act of silence, as the glare of light only shunned George. Above and great, separating the two.

It's quiet, the air felt and was heard the same as last week, when the two were here. Bringing notable similarities. His skin was touched by the murmuring from wind, as reassurance. And like fruitful digits, they drug along his cheeks deliciously. Whereas, Dream was pressed to the bench comfortably, the heel of his foot accompanying him upon the wood. Applying more bandaids to those awful blisters of his, pressing lightly and stripping those frayed and useless. And it was awkward, only vehicle cries rung amongst their time, consuming all they could hear. Leaving George to clench his fingers, picking at opened skin around the edges of his nails.

He had never been so fond with silent air, he did not know the value of a companion. And he didn't even know if he could handle such.

"Well.." He began, averting his gaze. "Have a nice night, I guess—" He says in a rushed tone, taking the hand of the moon and beginning to rapidly walk off. Never intentioned for the scene, and he hadn't bothered of emotion to plaster against his tone. Nor had he waited for a reply, as he didn't need it at all. This isn't what he wanted. All he ever craved, and all he ever needed.. was for Dream to be gone.

"Hey, hey— George, wait, hold on," Rambling quickly, the other's voice called out. 

It struck more annoyance into George's eyebrows, his eyes completely overcome with long eyelashes, lowered lids that eased the nuisance of a man. His feet had slowed, crumbling over pebbles and assailable leaves. The greens and broken concrete pled from the ground to din, George only focused his attention to that. Until sucking in unnecessary air, whipping his body around. Eyes ever so mundane.

"What..?" 

Dream grins lightly, before patting the vacantness of planks, scooting himself. The two cases of instruments were pressed against the side. The gleam that poured towards George poked at nerves beyond end, despite the excitement that bundled in his gut. 

His shoes don't pry to move, just allowing himself to stare. The deliberation of his ignorance and his rooted bitterness, flourishing his body language. And he scoffed, the whine drug out childishly. From shallowness, he meekly accepts that he had been beaten again. Bought into the fact that he's slouching in such ruinous limbs. A small grunt sounded when he knocked his spine into a supporting bench.

To this, continuation of reapplying bandages was set, whilst George observed. 

That leather of black is rolled against his elbows, those long fingers dangled around the pieces. Only wishing to heal wounds that have multiplied since last George had seen him. A neglectful nature is what Dream possessed, his feet becoming abused from the bareness it had been contained in the mistreatment of his bovvers. His rings only reminded him of how they slit of the numbing cold against his skin when they had held hands the prior Friday. 

"Why haven't you called me?" It's sudden. And it had George process it perhaps eight more times before he was able to even behold his reaction of tensity. He blinked. And he shuddered. Remembering the paper of scribbles that were wasting away in the trash.

George slowly shakes his head, the straightforwardness of a question only troubled him more. "I.." He begun, before drafting it foolishly. And he's holding his tongue graciously. "Your intentions aren't clear, Dream. You're confusing me."

Dream perked an eyebrow, his lips plumped towards the side, where he looked as to be biting the inside of his cheek. Only then, he smears his glance at George. Away from his bandaging, turning his head ever so smoothly. 

"Don't you ever want to call a friend?" He asked, steadily. 

George sneered. "I wasn't aware that we were even friends.." And he is true to his statement, unknown to what relationship they had even committed towards.

Dream's lips purse in his understanding nod. And he lowers his foot, dangling it above the opening of heavy boots. Carefully and precisely, his sock is inserted of the warmth. Kicking his leg up once more to zip up and tighten his laces. 

"You seem mad, George."

The breath of words traced to their lacking moonlight. And he almost feels guilty. Although, he had scoffed to it, not intent on his dwelling sensation of his chest.

"I do not intent on angering you. I never did," Dream continued, looping around his strings, yanking upon them. His voice wasn't hurt, nor had his expression spoiled. It was just statements to address, which had been good, yes. But, George's digits grip tighter to his sleeves. From intertwined palms are collected tightly into his lap.

And, of course, his guilt is creeping in. Overpowering that regret of ever meeting and encountering the other. 

George sighed, "You're not making me mad."

And it was true. It really wasn't Dream's doing, even if he overlays a small percentage of his troubles. Perhaps his overanalysis and the overthinking. And he lingers back to when he had sung, where it all began. 

"I'm open for your friendship." The brunet admits, the words carving themselves into cold wind. With a humorous grin, he had chuckled, "Embarrassing as it may be, friends aren't really common with me nowadays."

He rolled his eyes, a repent for his sentence is internally wished for.

But the consideration with the confession, Dream listens intently. Popping his foot back to ground, his back leaning back peacefully. 

But, George shook away the idea. He would've cackled if it wasn't for his own self restraint, as ties with Dream were dreadful to end wasted. Fragile and incomplete.

His nails scratched inside his pocket, easy enough to yank out the bill of fifty. Crumbled of its figure, posturing of its many folds and crinkles. Held in between George's index and middle finger, it is lent out to Dream. Who stares dumbly at it. 

"I just came back to give you back your money." The honesty is draped upon his lips. Even it it is catered to an indecisive lie. "That's it."

_I don't want to be friends with you._

_I don't want that._

The blond continued his look, throwing glimpses up and down to the dollar and to George. Who had been eager for this moment, wavering it gently for the take. Only anxious for the next move. 

_You paved the roots of trouble for me, Dream._

A palm was held up, "Keep it." Dream speaks, ending his disappointment. "It's my thanks for your help with giving me bandaids for my blisters."

George nervously chattered his teeth, the bill only pressed closer to Dream's personal space. He is cautious enough that the alarm doesn't color himself. "No.." He chuckled airlessly, his smile impatient and smudging his speech. "Dream." He scoffed. 

"George." The blond returned, in the form of mockery. Plastering a resembled smile to recreate George's. And his fingers perch to the brunet's, lowering chilly skin. "Really, take it." 

And as much as George had wanted to persist against him, he knew that the continuation of their conversation would lead to a pointless night. Necessitating his bearing patience, he paused. Before, soon, exhaling loudly. He had hung his head in shunned rebuff, stuffing away the fifty. Feeling rather dirty as he did, for he didn't feel as he was deserving of it. "Your generousity is disgusting." He uttered, although lighthearted of a joke. 

Dream returns a gentle laugh. George's eyes softened to it, as he's never heard it.

Pending the brunet to shake his head, disbelief wiped his palms off his face. The hairs of brown slung to his forehead in the process, causing the Brit to wipe them away. "I didn't even want to see you." George confessed. 

Dream's expression hadn't faltered, as he only shrugged. "Well," He spoke, "You say that you didn't want to see me and yet came back to give me back my money? Those two don't really go together, y'know."

George only wavered his hands, running through his hair. "Okay, okay. I am going to punch you if you don't stop." Dream chuckled louder to it, stammers in those heaps of air. "Anyways. How is your foot doing?" He asks.

Dream sighed, gradually tipping his head over the edge of the bench, arched and carving his throat's apple roughly. It crawls up and down against his words. "The ones from last week are better. But I wouldn't say for sure with the newer ones.." He spoke. "I can walk and preform relatively well, thankfully, it's just annoying at times, though."

"That's why you wear socks. Or maybe don't wear those monster shoes when you preform," George suggested with a bickering tone.

The blond smiled, pinching at his dimples. "That's boring."

"But it's safe."

"Well, you win some, you lose some," Dream returned, headlessly flying his arm towards the armrest. Where he plucked at one of the two instruments, plucking to a bass, leaving the electric guitar alone and glum. Soon, he slung the bass against his chest, holding dearly at the strings. He plucked and he tuned, nearing his ear for the sounds. "How about you?"

George is focused on the bass, admiration coated to his face. "What about me?" He asks.

Dream pulled at strings some more, maneuvering the tips of controls. Quivering the tunes. "How are you. Is what I mean," He corrects himself. "Before I got on stage, I saw you wiping down the bar counters." Dream tells him. "Didn't look too happy, either. Seems as though your face is emotionless everywhere."

"I am going to kick your heel."

Light of a threat, George just continues to navigate his gaze to that bass. A full black coat, canny of lime green piercing certain edges, appending such interest towards it. He breathes out a gentle sigh to the sight of lipstick stains, those of sundry colors and lip markings. Speckled against the area of ends, much too many for calculations. "I'm doing good." He answers flatly.

Dream sneered, "Oh, don't be boring, George." He turns down to him, earning him rolling eyes. 

"What am I supposed to say?" It's sheepish and rather nervous, averting himself to return to the bass. Analyzing it innocently. 

"Whatever happens in that interesting life of yours," Dream rejoinders. "I would imagine there to be wonders contained to the life you live. I'm interested. You're interesting. I enjoy hearing you talk."

"Ah.." He proceeds to ignore those last words, and begins to circle around his routine of a lifestyle. Which really, he'd only result in the same cycle. Conformed of boring and repetitive. Waking up within an apartment of rubbish, presenting to a job he loathes of. Along with workers he loathes of. Overwhelming himself for a paycheck he loathes of, as well. Struggling home silently to trouble himself of sleep. Perhaps, the only intriguing thing to his nature was his companions of a cat and dog. If anything more, occasional flirts from people would occur, altered from both genders. 

"I.." He started, humming. "I had a banana for breakfast."

"George.." Dragged out of his call, Dream groaned into the stars. He pulled another string, aligning it with his tone for harmonization. "Don't bore me."

"That's literally all I got, Dream." A tad embarrassed, he shrugged.

"Talk about something other than breakfast." The laugh bubbled gruffly, before Dream lifts his palm. It slowly flopped against the wind, causing George to lightly flinch. 

He chewed his lip, nibbling softly. "I.. When I got on the bus, there was a kid who kept talking about Donkey Kong." He had begun. Glancing to Dream for justification, who returned an awaiting nod for him to continue. "And.. Uh.. One of my co-workers gave me two of her rings, because it was of her exes that she didn't want," George hesitates himself, bashfully pulling his hand out. Of the newly collected silver, adding on to the other one he had prior. They were cheap and felt big on his own digits. But they shined well, one hugged his pinky to a gem of purple and the other thickened upon his middle finger. He presented them carefully to Dream, who gazed over them, clicking up an eyebrow.

"So, yeah, there's that," George shrugged, lowering his hand back into his jacket. "And.. Let's see. I plan on going grocery shopping this week, since I now have fifty dollars to my name...And maybe I'll buy apple pie for dinner. That'll be nice."

And for some reason, his eyes naturally blossomed gentle and sweet. A smile grand he had gifted, completely unaware. And Dream only gapes, growing relaxed in the seat. George soon realizes his small grin, wiping it off with swift glance. Clearing his throat. "I doubt you found that interesting." He admitted, monotonic.

"You forgot about the part where you call me." Dream snickered.

George just huffed a, "Fuck off."

Dream plucked at a couple notes, making a beautiful tune of the bassist strums. Staccato and hiccuping along the sound, lowly sang. And he speaks through his playing, "How about when you were in high school? Anything ever of interest there?"

"Erm.. I don't really.." George uttered, trailing off his endeavor.

"Were you in the chess club? I bet you were in the chess club." The taunting voice interrupts, through the tingling of the bass' cries. 

George shakes his head, exhaling a weak laugh. "Oh god no." He answered, juddering a hand towards him as to dismiss the idea. "I _did_ play tennis for some time, though."

"Ooo.." Dream sang, coordinating his voice along with the bass. Plucking a tune that George was rather fond of, feeling comfort easing into him. "Played tennis? That's neat." He remarked kindly. "Ever played any instruments, George?"

George took a hesitant approach to that question, the joy that he once presented in a smile had steadily diminished into a lost and distinguishable expression. As he blinked, attempting for his answer to give. 

In this moment, his eyes traveled down. Running towards Dream's hands. As they held tenderly to that bass, the trembling of notes melted into each other. The hum rung deep to their breathe, making it's form into the serene cold. 

His gaze shuddered towards the other instrument. Of the electric guitar. His dithering only sprouted suspicious to Dream, soon cocking his head to the Brit.

"You played the electric guitar?" Dream questioned plainly, his voice patching an impressive note.

_Electric guitar.._

George swallowed. Fluttering his lids whilst he ticked his head, briefly yanking his eyebrows up. Alas, perhaps it were true. But for the brunet, never had it been pretty memories. Never to be sublime. Refreshing his mind, he recalls of things he's chosen to brush past himself. The awful smell of airplane food, the resonance of other guitarists that occupied quicker digits and palatial tunes at auditions, and how miserable his fingers had felt when he tore away the strings into selling. How bad the apartment was in state, and the reminiscent of formidable looks he'd receive when he first applied as staff. Where disappointment was all he'd pry upon, and how greed was poisoning his fingertips to bands he'd set up to the stage. 

Dare say there was marit within it, but George found fault in everything that he did. 

"Yeah.." After his inordinate silence, he replied to Dream. Plastering back his grin. 

Dream nodded. And the pricking of his bass ceased, cutting off abruptly. George recovered himself, turning up to the blond as he stopped. Confusion bought greatly as Dream rested the bass to the ground. Sunk into grass, the arm slanted to the edge of the wooden bench. Afterwards, he leaned over and plucked up the other instrument. 

And George lightly winced. Clenching his fingers as Dream held it out to him. He took the gesture nicely, even if he considered it to be unnecessary. 

"Oh, no, no. I don't play anymore." George spoke uncomfortably, shaking his head. 

Dream tips his head, his shaggy hair colliding lower to his neck, the thickened layers brushing against his ears. "Sure you do," He said politely, his voice held against his heart. "You can't just forget how to play something. The brain is too complex for those terms. Anyone can play."

"Dream, really." George burdens his nervous smile, voice straining.

Dream's eyes built heavily gentle. "I'm not going to pressure you, or anything, don't worry. But I'm just interested." He says.

George doesn't say anything. And he only eases his body within a slouch, scratching the fabric of his black jacket pouches. The pockets grew more sweaty in his favor, however. And he watched as Dream set the guitar back into its positioning of its case. The zipper calling out its closing. 

"Share with me when you're comfortable, George. You can trust me, put my tender sincerity on it." Dream told him honestly.

George smiles, finding his opinionated view differing with it. "Wilt away the sincerity. I doubt it, nor do I believe it." He had chuckled. Though, inferring it towards a joke, it was delivered harsh. Bitter to his tongue.

Dream hummed.

Before a familiar gleam of car lights flew upon the two, lighting their tension.

"Anything for you, George." He sighed. 

Sullen, and forbearance to his general being, George refused an opening for the other. To crawl and crave within, it wasn't needed. No matter how genuine his words felt or the gentle smiles they'd pass, it wasn't what he had wanted. Fearing a fellow ache, a familiar ache, he avoids such contact as he's being driven home. Once more.

Cramped and overly concerned against the driver, it's all comforting, somehow. Along their arguing of directions to his home, he hates to admit it and share with the mourning world that he missed it. Weekdays contained him to the muddled buses, so thick of the gross air and how he'd digest away all his discomfiture. Alas, here. In a car that was probably breaking three laws at once, made him feel such security. 

He made it home with a little more weight upon his shoulders than usual, restlessly dragging up to concrete and brick. But he held Dream's hand once more. For their endearing goodbye. Sappy to fingertips, but never could George sheer away that flush of his cheeks. 

And somehow, it's more than that. 

More than unspoken embarrassment. And the unmentioned tension of their stares. Transforming into something that George craved for, and the end of shifts. Of how his hands would feel. How they would drift along his own with a thumb, it'll electrify him of the care Dream possessed.

And tonight, Dream sent him off with a goodbye of petals and lambent flickers, of benevolence and decorated vagueness taciturn, all to make George think of it over and over again. 

"Don't overwhelm yourself, George." He murmured within the car. 

"Dream." George chuckles nervously, averting his eyes in a fluster. 

"Really, George. Be gentle with yourself. You require too much industry and patience, for that."

And as the dust and planets above watch below, it's only George who accepts it. Where he prevails to dreams and clouds, in a bed where once was burdening. 

It was a doubt of return. The doubt that riddled inside him for the next sufferable days. But until, the next Friday had arrived. Tiptoes clutched to a ground and anticipation stored into flitter eyelashes, of where the night expects the two. Of the back exit, into an accepting bench. Of blisters that await the pristine bandages, and of a brunet. Upon his reckless word, he smells cigarette smoke, overhearing a humming bass. 

"Quit gawking. You're making me nervous."

George analyzes the instrument settled under his palm, huge and splurging out those memories he's once loved. Thickened strings peering up to him of a gleam that strangles his mind. A fog of grey tickles his nose gently, only reminding himself of the other presented.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to." Dream had mentioned, delivering away the smoke in his breathe. "I don't mind, George. Really."

How he'd imagine of something like this to be in his reach once more. Of all that he's poured himself into, creating a mold of beauty in those notes. That hang amongst his prior room in his old home, back in London. The time where he'd first began experimenting of his interests. Longing for another conception he'd teach his fingers. Alas, last time he's bundled himself with an electric guitar, the croon of strings weren't so darling. Rather fetching, the performed notes had been shaky, deeming coy and disappointing. Where the notes only hung against his neck, demanding his panic.

"I don't even know if I still remember how to play," To an honest response, he weakly utters it. His forefinger drawing along blemish lipstick stains.

It's cold now. And a mere, beset shiver crept along his skin. Trifling and lifting arm hairs unnoticeably, whereas chiseled him from uncertainly. His quaver hid beneath his baggy sweater, only hugging the electric guitar closer against his torso, as he slightly leant over. He sucked in his destruction, giggling airlessly. 

The harrow that cowers his feeble shadow above and beyond the guitar is nigh, and never was George to feel such uncertainy in his life. 

"Have fun with it," Dream inquired, flying around his cigarette, the light of it munching towards core. "I don't wish for you to be stressed. I want you to feel nice when you play. I've noticed how squirmish you get when I even go as far as _mentioning_ the damned instrument."

George squeezes his eyes plainly shut, burrowing himself to his own embarrassed figure. "I'm that obvious, aren't I?"

The reply of a nod returns. And the brunet exhaled once again.

He had been careful with his stalling. Unmindful to how Dream didn't seem to mind, taking closure into their time together with his fogged smoke. No questions of his hesitation. No weird looks. He was bare witnessed to George aiming his fingers to areas of desired notes, but no avail to any noise. Dissatisfied and rather disappointed, but Dream had held his gracious tongue. He would wait. He did not mind. Dream was patient, all for George. 

The Brit was quite reluctant in his studious leer, fingers placed precisely to where he had wished, but he wouldn't be able to move. He was frayed motionless. Medusa finding her cursed way into his mind, as he tried to shake himself away and run towards embellish movement. To tunes that he had compiled himself, beautiful and delicious tastes he remembers discarded. All in his brain and body, Dream just knew they had imprinted themselves, never to be forgotten. And George grit his teeth, grinding sparkes. 

His digits sprawled along the lengthed neck, careful to where he had placed himself. And within the body, his other hand was heeded responsibility. Correcting forth to all that was coming back to him, and of little talent he has sadly been disposed of.

And yet, he had begun. Flicking along the strings, a faster tune than he would've enjoyed, but he did it for the pleasure of first impression. For great praise, and or just a simple smile. It would be a first, for him. And it would be all he'd need for his own acceptance.

Oh how he had been doing so divine, within his thirty seconds of playing, before a note was struck uneven. Out of tune. It made George flinch and suck in his lip.

"W-Wait, shit. Hold on—" He quickly diminished.

Dream had already been holding his reaction upon his face, far before the mistaken mishap. Although, he wouldn't have even noticed that inaccurate stroke if it wasn't for George's overreaction, who was soon replaying from what he messed up on. Failing in his trails, and doing it once more. A cycle continues until his third fault, where he clicked his tongue and begun adjusting the tuners angrily. So aggressive that he might've feared he were to tear them off.

Dream didn't understand such frustration. And his eyes were big, irises collided to gushy interest and scrutiny. His fingers sped along effortlessly, employing unexpected envy of the Brit. His cigarette was exposed to a doleful fall from the perched fingers, unable to handle a grasp any longer due to his daze. Caught up in the reveal George performed. Albeit the performance was short, Dream was colored impressed.

"Fuck—" George curses multiple times, ticking the strings to improve the pitch. Which sounded beautiful as it had been, but it didn't satisfy the one of a scrunched expression. He squinted himself of shame. "Hold on. I got this." 

"George."

"Can you _hold_ on??" His harshness against Dream was nothing compared to the harshness he held against himself. "I messed up. Let me do it again."

Dream wanted to indulge himself into formatting a calm environment, instead of the overwhelmed one George plowed himself in. Whereas, no tune was good for him, as he ended up with the same sound from the beginning. It would not have mattered, to Dream.. It didn't matter, but it paid great deal to the other. His frustration was inevitable to soon transfer within Dream if he hasn't owned dear composure.

Dream fixated his posture, leaning over a tad to George's struggling. Where he cautiously drapes his palm above his hair. A gentle swing, and he lightly tapped the back of his head. A little reminding for his control.

"Hey, hey." Dream stated firmly.

George had grumbled against the touch, fumbling his fingers towards the impact, rubbing mildly. And he turned to the blond, the worry forming within his forehead. Pouring out the panic that he couldn't rest aside. Soon cast aside with the disgruntled face.

Dream's hand was hesitate in the air, only focusing himself to George. How frustrated he has gotten, to pinched brows and irate frown. It made him tense his fingers, squeezing his own skin.

"George." Dream murmured. Brought into thoughtfulness, his fist unraveled. Soon, cold fingers slowly caved into George's hair. They were ever so gentle for touch, softly slitting a path in the brown, covering up his trails. Odd enough, he allowed his palm to rest. Earning himself a smile once the boy below eased into the sensation. "Calm down. You're doing fine. You're doing amazing."

George blinked against the action, inhaling broken cigarette particles, exhaling the stress that devoured his vulnerability. 

Was it new?

Definitely new.

And it made George flutter his eyes, untangling his fingers away from the guitar. Only to scrape against strings, strings that he had once felt were suffocating him, of that terrible feeling in his chest at failures. Such an inanimate object felt evil against him, and really.. How stupid. George felt stupid. But the comfort felt more insulting than the original purpose of a gentle touch. 

And he scoffed. 

"Yeah. Okay." Although, he had rolled his eyes, shaking off the warm hand that felt so good against his skin. Refusing all that Dream was delighted to bring forth. And returning himself towards tuning and plucking for the most perfect sound. 

In the midst of it all. Of distress and unlucky hums, throughout a racing pulse and vulgar curses, it was gratefulness that blossomed to his cheekbones. And George was quiet enough to inquire something different than usual nature of him. A soft, yet distasteful to his own lips,

"Thank you, Dream.." 

The blond blinked. Taking note of how tender his irises had become.

"I really appreciate it."

The playing of his fingers had continued, running along what he had neglected to finish and throw victorious to. And he held the instrument, with coordination positioned upon body and neck, where he begun to replay. 

He refused to glimpse to Dream, as he didn't feel the necessary flavor of it. Prioritizing all that he had into playing, flying along the various swerves of notes with amazing pronunciation.

In awe. Practically selling himself into the awe, it was all Dream could feel.

He collected himself, though, reaching himself to the bass. Whereas, he created a tune to go back against George's own. It fit in, and fabricated an exalted beat of a thumb. 

"Y'know, George."

His voice is catered against a whisper. As if there were to be ears rounding them to a corner, with vast eyes that were appointed to their shoulders, of something that felt almost secretive to them. He whispered lowly, and almost carefully. His weak brew of the utter made the grass eyelashes tremor, too powerful enough that George had to clear his throat. 

"I've decided on quiting the electric guitar for our shows." He hummed. Dangerous and merely causing George to slow his fingers, collectively ceasing within grasp as he had listened. "We've decided that it'll be best if I play bass. It's what I like more, and really, what I'm better at. Sounds better in our songs, too."

George is quiet. 

And he had gaped down to their shoes, across the avoidable gem that grew colder and colder in his embrace. Of his sleeves that pawned for protection, they rolled down from his elbows. Tumbling away rationality, as they reached back to his thumb. For defense of something so stupid. Shying to any more playing, despite how good it felt. It made him quarrel to his thoughts. The thoughts of how good it felt to play the guitar again. How _fucking_ good it was for him to not be squandered of rudely spattered techniques to fix himself. He loved how his fingers grown a small ache from adjustment. And yet, hated it all. 

The cigarette that was neglected into concrete ate the dots of pathetic fire that had managed to grip to the ends. Sputtering ash here and there, as if it were coughing out the last words of his dying decay. George only wanted to feel that way, now. Dreading anymore of what Dream was to say.

"Uh-huh.." Exhaled in his sigh, he drug out his word.

Dream, only then, continued.

_Don't say it._

"And now, we don't have a guitarist on the band." He spoke. Causing George to swallow his breath.

_Please.. I'm begging you._

_Don't say it, Dream._

"And now, we're looking for a new member."

And there. There it was. From dread and pitiful despair, George could only sigh and swathe his lids closed, lowering them shortly after his refusable speech. His palm just grew puny to the body of metal cords, just craving to shove it back into casing. To reminiscent the recollection of why he was to think this way in the first place. Why he was so strongly disposable to decline and only live in a different world of where his past hadn't sprout of existence. He would withhold himself until he shall slumber into his grave. 

"George." Dream speaks.

_No, no.._

_Don't talk to me in that voice. I've never wanted anything from the start. You're regretful._

Frozen, and just internally begging for Dream to cast away his ideas. Even if they hadn't been of what George was decorated from. Oozing trepidation was all to his plundering gut, already feeling the nausea throbbing to thin skin. 

_Nothing of what I want, Dream._

"Would you like to be a new member?"

_Nothing. Nothing. Oh-so nothing to what I'd crave._

Weak. Inattentive. Numb fingers.

And George couldn't even sigh. Nor could he even compel himself to return to a refusal. Because he knew himself well enough that he was putty in Dream's hands. Inescapable to what he had begun.

George was weak.

George was inattentive.

And his fingers grew numb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just ate china bistro mmmmm bitch fucking good as fuck god damn hghgvghhh
> 
> until then,, next chapter soon. is geroge gunna accept and quit being a whiny bitch boy? or is gerogje gunna be a fuckhead and refuse cuz he's dumb and stupid and also dumb and stupid and dumb and stupid and du
> 
> wait until then,, probably gonna be next week or idk cuz a bitch got finals lol. 
> 
> love u all so so so much. it means a lot to me that u are kudos this book. plz share plz!!!! i would love criticism too n feedback!
> 
> okay bye now,, muah muah muah love u <3


	3. cold in the echo.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George becomes more troubled than he intents, resulting himself into catering solitude despite his nature. Although his lips taste the cigarette and his ear is warmly comforted to a telephone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *'My name is trouble' and 'strange weather' by keren Ann plays in the background* bitch karen ann and angel olsen have been keeping me thru the story making, they got such good songs ughhhh,, rlly inspired this chapter cuz i had them on repeat lol. thank u all who are reading :] i hope to have a bigger audience soon— so i love u all so much to be reading !! :D

_"Do you still have that tender sincerity..?"_

_"I'm only human, George." The other replied simply. "No human could have that much purity."_

_And it's quiet. The brunet frowned of slight disappointment._

_And it's youthful._

_Then, his gaze. Yet again._

_"But for you, George.." He hummed. "Only you, I have it, I'm sure it's enough to kill me."_

George didn't understand why the very thoughts of Dream were so intent sabotaging his feeble brain, when he was perfectly capable of doing that himself. He was perfectly mindful towards his interest in the man, but it was quite bothersome when he found himself catching the newspapers. Wandering around the words for the name of that other, taking only interest to that.

And soon, he asked his boss if he could work overtime on Fridays.

He is all and young.

He has lived long enough to experience the engagement of dead fulfillment and wrenched ignominy. All of which, he'd grip against his reddened cheeks. And like beautiful, kissing licorice, he'd be able to pull and crumble it. It'll stretch and disfigure all he had toiled towards, and yet, it was still senseless. His anger, his sadness, was just wasted breathe and air. Frittered away sticks of ash. All of things he had told himself he didn't care about, until he was able to accept the fabrication into embracing truth.

He is nothing and old.

The cost of ambition cursed him, and never would he pucker the excitement. Was there ever anything to not lie about? And the greed— oh god, the greed— it's almost fatal. George knew himself to be mortal, any idiot would know so, and he wished to live upon the grass long enough like any other. Cherish something heavenly, or be cherished tenderly. He deserved it, George knew he deserved it just as much as any person.

Ground was soft, grass is reviving, George was willing to accept it. And he knew he submitted to buzzed air and the sardonic grin of a ridged moon, and allow himself to experience joy. He will live, no matter how forced or distraught he became, his lungs will not decay and his ribs won't turn into food for soil. He oughta drown himself of an alcoholic ecstasy, he oughta suffocate his insides and fill them of ash.

But this was better..

He didn't have to reside in gorgeous streetlights and nourishing green, for his body would decide to live in his distractions. Slumbered carelessly in a porcelain bathtub, engulfing a man drenched of his prior clothing, and reeking forlornness. A greatest simpleton to all, he lays languid to awakening light.

Subtle breathlessness resides in dear or dead disappearance, whispering in an echo of a caved, enamel ravine. Like clouds— just like bubbling, weightless fluffiness, the pigmented ivory encased George.

Reveries did not traffic his consciousness, they didn't have the strength to lull him successfully. His lashes were tugged from gossamer effort by his lids, the sun made her mockery within the small window. Shot from the mixtures of an ugly yellow and mournful orange, pouring the sliced fragments. Greeting him with loving confessions to an early morning. His eyes fluttered fairly, attempting to ease his vision from blurry trouble and splotches of a vague bathroom he had contained himself within.

Lazy enough, he groans lowly inside of his throat, vibrating his arid mouth, along with his itchy gullet. He is startled from awakening, his arms held down from heavy sleeves. The water was deadly to push the man down, reminding him more to why he woken up this way.

"Good morning.."

Softly, he whispers into dreary echo. His voice bounced from baby blue chipped paint, it rounded the center of the room, where the stationed tub paid a due. So small, almost claustrophobic to the view, but George didn't bother for any panic of movement.

It is a good morning. Because good mornings tasted better after pitiful, prior nights. To which, George was glad he couldn't remember all to happen after Dream's offer.

He was joyous to not remember Sapnap's awaiting Ford Pinto, of where he drug himself to the luck of unrecieved speeding tickets, and the goodbye of a blond. He neglected the want of remembering. And yet, boggles his mind of the last words. As always. George hummed poorly. His head perched against the edge of the tub lowered dangerously, until his face was consumed of the water. Sinking himself with a heap of quick air, his hair eating up his forehead. The strands danced once swallowed of water, and George held himself there silently. His slouched back not straining to ache. And he blew bubbles that crawled rapidly towards the surface. How modest, he were.

_"Sleep in angel's echo, George."_

He, then, abruptly hauls his head from consumption. Drafting along clear pebbles of water, shattering them along his moldy wall. He's almost scared when Dream's imagery headed into his mind, a horror to the calmness he once felt.

His fingers quickly grip to vacant ridges, squeaking out in a cry upon his pressing fingers. Which have grown appallingly wrinkled. And he pants. Damp, darkened amber fall into his eyes, the free strands dripping. Dribbling and dribbling, unencumbered. The traveling water trails along his cheeks, over his nose, peaking and desolately clutching his eyelashes. Rounding his eyes, they grasp along ruined powdered shadow. Faint and nearly unnoticeable black met an end towards his upper cheekbone. His collorbones are tickled from a continuous stream, soon gathering to meet the pool of the tub. One along the other, following along the fall of trickling droplets back into water.

How had he become something so ruined and wrecked. In the absence of his common sense, he must find himself in impulsive exhaustion. A friendly reminder of wrongful charity and killing melodies, he only wants to drown himself effortlessly beyond exception.

Although, he calms himself. Blinking away his panic of that bosom voice of Dream's haunting. Accustoming his fingers back into comforting waters and leaning his spine to ceramic white. He droops his head carelessly, his hair falling along cold marble tiles. And he regains his peace.

"I  fucking hate him." It's a whine, a complaint, his call out to either ghosts or devils. It's all he is able to croak, receiving only the bath's leakage.

And he does.

He really does hate him.

Hold him to accountability, nor lying effort, he hates him. He hates Dream. There's nothing more he could feel.

"I hate him."

With the whisper, it tastes of his fraught and want.

Let alone to an empty gaze, he averts himself from the window, squinting his eyes as he hung his neck from the edge. The rim of the tub rested his head, twisting his vision upside down. From the tub, he drifted his finger upwards, humming at the rings clashed to puckered pinkies. And he directs his point towards the opening of his bedroom. Abandoned of his opened door, his cat sat in the doorway. Only to be silent, and stare to George's groggy expression.

"C'mere.." He hummed to the upside down pet, wringing his palm and fingers to beckon. "C'mere Cat. C'mere.."

There isn't a reaction besides a painfully slow blink of their eyes. The green of such that circled amongst black glowed oddly, coming forth with a rising sun.

George frowned.

Until he sunk his arm within his chest, once more. Discarding his interaction of his cat, almost childishly.

His fingers danced along the tub's edge, on occasion he would perk his ear to wailing squeaks. Of where they'd be loud enough to alarm the cat, to which George apologized meekly. He is lazed, and tired, still. And he's nothing more to do, than pluck his pity digits to the side of him. The floor that clustered of things he hadn't remembered placing.

He squints to the brown wooden box settled to the floor. The center that held a circular black placement, already containing a vinyl placed. The metal rod of an arm, awaiting for George's touch to press down.

A record player, dangerous to be sitting so closely against the tub. He almost becomes worried— keyword, almost.. And yet, he doesn't process for a reaction of pushing it aside. Alas, his only attention is an ashtray of cigarettes yet to be swallowed and a chipped, yellow tainted telephone. He doesn't remember at all of his night, and something told him these items were some sort of culprits. Or perhaps, witnesses. Must he say, his negligence? He wasn't to know.

Even if he doesn't remember when he's bought a vinyl of any sort, he situated the rod atop, securing the necessities he had needed for such. Whirring up an awfully slow piano tune, grumbling before smoothly fastening the steady song.

_"It's called Liebestraum No. 3, by Liszt.."_

George softly hits his head to the tub as he repeats the words, his memory of last night only peering to him brusquely.

_"Who is that..? Is that like a band?"_

Through swivels of the water, the slouch of his spine is corrected abruptly. Only remembering how kind he was to be when he held his graciousness to him. George is pressing his back as far to the wall of his tub, only wishing he was capable of tearing down the barrier. Soon, pulling his knees in, embracing them dearly.

George sighed. Before closing his eyes, once more. To his land of memories.

_"No, no.." Dream chuckled, holding the packaged paper, carefully yielding it into his lap from his bag. "He's a pianist. Franz Liszt." Dream murmured, extending the paper bag towards him. "It's piano."_

_George hesitates, and glances to the item. And persuaded from elevated irises of a blond, he slips his fingers for a grasp. Clutching the vinyl before holding it graciously in his arms. "And..?" He slow with a response, not to care if he came off rudely cold or uninterested. Rather, he intended for it._

_"Just something I thought you'd like." Is all Dream states, smiling quietly as he taps the bench. "I feel like.. I feel like It reminded me of you, that is."_

_Dream paused._

_George glared down to the crinkled paper, easing his hand to slither to the opening. The bag groaned out noisely in cracks as George caught hold of the thin delicacy of music._

_"It reminds me a lot of you." Dream admits sheepishly._

_George bit his lip, peering along white engravements of the vinyl, tracing along letters that read his words. He'd wish to throw it. He'd wish to break it. The words tore his mind._

_**'For George. For my tender sincerity.'** _

_He is grim in his chest, sucking in spiteful wind._

_"I love how it reminds me of you."_

"..Hello..?"

George lured the gust of smoke from his lips, grazing his cigarette above the ashtray. Dangling from the bath, the tumbling black of gray resides with the rest of the pile. His dizzy heart only plundered violently to a voice after such prolonged loitering buzzing.

"Hey, Dream." George exhaled.

There is ringing silence to the line, where the brunet took the opportunity to drag along his lips to the cigarettes. Drawing in his stinging, wounded throat, desperately wanting to cough. Alas, he composed the need, clearing his throat as an alternative.

"George??" Soon, voices are accompanied within the background, muffled poorly. George waits listessly, until he hears the blond once more, "You actually decided to call me?" He's surprised, speaking lowly."And now?"

Towards his ending note, it caused George to frown, tucking his knees tighter into his torso. "Did I call at a wrong time?.." George spoke warily after hesitation, fearing against his timing.

Another string of indistinct murmuring contain the call, until it's picked up yet again, "You can never call at a wrong time, George." He hummed. Causing the other to quirk an eyebrow up in confusion. Not knowing of the intention of the statement. "Give me a second, yeah?"

George responses in a loud hum. Almost sounding annoyed if it wasn't masking away his dread.

The line is grumbling along different noises that interfered his ears, the difference of various tones made him wonder if he should've tucked a phone in the first place. Surreal to him, he picks up to faint bass growling, with prattling beats of a drum.

He sighs, glancing to his window to admire mindful light, the branches of trees tapping delicately to his panes. Only a second more, and rattling of a phone commences, a voice to follow after, "Alright, I'm back."

George's fingers tapped gently to the tainted stick over the mountainous bundle of drugged waste, closing his eyes. "Hello, Dream."

"Hi there, George," The voice returned, lowly and a curving tone towards the end, deeming either puzzlement or suspicioun. "Is.. —Are you playing the vinyl?" He sounds excited, and George could practically imagine his lidded grin.

And that's what he needed.

What brought his ribs to expand rapidly and his lips to twist into a smile, reminding contentment. He shyly presses the back of his head to firm concrete once more, carefully tucking the phone between his shoulder and neck, neatly crammed to his ear. Wary for the swirled wire not to contact the water, as he replied, "Uh-huh.." He hummed.

Dream chuckled along the line, "How is it? 'S nice?"

"Eh."

"Is that a good thing or no?"

George gazes towards the tumbling whirls, collecting the abundance of notes. And the splattered to his moldy sink, complimented with a leakage that George never had the chance to fix. The music was cowering over him and his flickering lightbulb above, clicking with every motion of a useless glow. The frugality was enough for the sleeping soul, qualified for fresh respire.

And the words.. Once more.

_For George. For my tender sincerity._

"It's fucking amazing, Dream.." He admits without barriers.

A pause is granted. And all George could wait for is a voice to return.

"I'm glad."

As walls were insufferably thin, George heard stomps from above, raging of impact to tremble his lights. Yet, he ignored it, and listened to Dream's continuation.

"Sapnap and I are in the studio, George," He told him gently.

The brunet glimpses to his side, over and off the tub. Whereas, he spotted whiskers and a capering, long tail. He smiled down to Cat, lifting his head as a small greeting, a cry of a meow was returned. "Yeah?" George muttered, before chuckling. "No invite?"

Dream laughed, the connection crinkled and cut off his voice to occasion. "Actually, we were just talking about you." He says. "We want to record something. And we need you."

George's playful manner wears off into pulled lips. His corners dripping and melting away his grin he was once so joyful to.

He didn't like the sour taste in his mouth.

"You..—"

_You need me??_

_Dont you want me?_

_Would you ever?_

"You're ridiculous, shut up." George sighed, the rapid flutter of his eyes only tied within cigarette smoke. Holding his body to the ceiling, and he sat up straighter. The animal curled on the floor, meowing once more.

"Really, George." Dream conferred. "You're a part of the band, now. Of course, we'd want you over here."

With a shake of his head, his only intention at the moment was to avoid the question. Apprehension cut deep into his ribs, his breathing becoming difficult to manage, and he exhaled a shaky sigh.

The line grumbled once more, shaky in his ear as a near voice appeared. Familiar and sweet. And.. Rather obnoxiously loud.

"Hey, gogy!"

It was Sapnap. George blinked stretched eyes, moderately. Mostly to the aburptness of his appearance and the odd name he's given. Overhearing Dream's voice wrapped in the background, calling out with cusses and the raven's name.

"..Gogy?.." George echoed, bewildered to such a peculiar title.

There is various scratches to their call, making the Brit cringe an eye shut. "Stop it, Dream, I wanna talk to him, now." Sapnap alleged, beats of a mute call begun, George waiting rather impatiently. "Where are you? We were supposed to record like three hours ago." He almost whined, George would've mistaken it for ridicules if it wasn't for Sapnap's nature.

George blinked for a second, wavering his eyes around the room to rise upwards, finding the secondhand clock. A hand lifting onto the '2' symbol. Rather, it alarmed him. Couldn't be too healthy for him to be sat in a tub for so long. How weird, wouldn't you think.

"Ah.." George called out aimlessly. "I was.. Sleeping."

"He was sleeping," Sapnap said, inferring it towards the other of his company. And he heard Dream bark up a short laugh. Before there was muffled speech, too indistinct for George to break down and understand. Greatly enough, Sapnap's voice stung into the phone.

"Dream says that he wants to pick you up." Sapnap affirmed.

That received a raised eyebrow, only fearing to deal with stressing himself. It had always grit him down to such a belittled state. "Um." He sounded, but his words were held terribly. Must not succumb to the frustration, George nervously taps his fingers to his cheek, digging his nails into rough skin. "Right now?" He is careful not to let his worry cave into his tone, spitting away his shakiness.

"Yeah. We can head over right now."

_I don't want to._

_I don't think so._

"I.."

_No._

"Sure. Sounds good."

Must not succumb to pressure, George.

Those legs of his are strong, never to be weak. And they were glued to tile that was much nicer than his apartment ones, and the room was profound of a freezing temperature. An adding feature to his gripping fingers that squeezed amongst the fluff of his blue sweater.

Awkwardly rubbing his uneven sock from his ankle by his free shoe, carefully glaring to the thickened glass set feet away from him. Rather vague, the figures on the other side slap their lips and teeth around, inaudible talking George had yet to hear. He tried to belittle his thrill from ticking away at the guitar, but his eyes wouldn't cease their wandering.

For his sneering dreams, and his nightmares would obtain this view he had died to have. 

And yet, here he was. A studio, clutching a tremble of an electric guitar, with headphones squeezing at his hair. Just awaiting for anymore signs of the others to speak. Not only were Sapnap and Dream, but fellow others he hadn't become familiar to. It made him nervous to his knees. But the blond had kindly assured him they were an aid of help. 

George perked his head to a buzz, a grainy voice clearing amongst the walls, "Just a second, George.. We're hearing a buzz—" Dream spoke softly, awaiting for a reaction. George stood quiet, before nodding his head within obedience. "—Try the other bus, Sap. I still hear i—" He had spoke, not intended for the brunet, but the line flew silent again. 

He could hear himself breathing, he felt the faintness of a pulsating heart.

"Alright, George." Again, to alarm him suddenly, Dream called into. "Go on, we'll play the track. You ready?"

He hasn't been too absorbent of all that has happened around him. George really tried, he really did, but it felt like every word that was said to him and every warm handshake held out to him, phased past him. The car ride was nothing but a frail memorable, he hadn't been keen enough when Dream had explained the layout of the song. The chords, the rhythm, all that George was responsible of, wasteful muck in his palms. Was it too much? George asked himself as he glared down to the stringed instrument. Ah.. No, no, it couldn't be. 

"Yeah, yeah, I'm ready," He informed, after hesitantly holding up the guitar closer to his lips, where the mic had been implanted. So careful, too nervous for a jitter. 

He sought a nod through the other side, Dream peering down towards lowered controls. 

To a simple clack, there was ringing in his ears. 

George had been appointed for a beginning of the song. Where strums blew slow and teasing you of a forecasting greed, before it had been able to glisten away to a fast pace. "And I know that you could do it.." Dream had told him sincerely when he had first explained it to him. With such a lost confusion conformed in those eyes of the brunet, his only reaction had been to dismiss him, to disagree, "Dream. I really don't think I.." He was murmuring, hugging the guitar close, mimicking away to the chords that Dream vocalized. Stumbled into wrong notes, it only made George cringe at the mistaken playing. He held his head up, for more of an understanding to his statements. But Dream only drew that positivity and the logic of his voice, "See? You practically did it. I can't even do that." 

"Dream.." George almost pled, grumbling childishly. And he plucked to random notes, a free tune for him to ease himself. 

"You're doing fine, George." Dream says, his grin too genuine to George's taste. "After the intro of the song, the chords really just repeat themselves."

Soon enough, clicking of a countdown commenced into his headphones, having George grip the neck of the instrument tighter and shake away his thoughts of Dream.

To a five counting mark of a ticking noise, George's vision would blur down to the notes he was meant to play. Never was there to be a paper of what he had meant to preform, as Dream only spoke to him of his task. And the brunet had never been one for sight-reading. Always acquainted to visualizer of his learning.

The fourth click was sounded. 

Only aching his fingers more and more to how sharp they tended to their gripping. He was never to be nervous, for it wasn't a crowd. Yes? Right? No.

Third click.

How must you put it delicately? George didn't understand why he hated it so much, even if he's craved of a moment of relieving himself to a location as this. Nevertheless, to his skinning lips that were cut and ripped from his teeth, George only grew attached to this upcoming play. 

Second.

He was colliding with a fogged mind, only reciting what he must in his head too many times to count. Adjusting his fingers tighter to the beginning chords that he was to play, shaking away that worry. But it returned. Every returning only made him relapse of his positioning, and all that he had remembered and practiced beforehand coming into recording. His spite, his detachment of what he's once adored. 

There was no last click.

Or, at least, George had been to wished to hear. And he didn't play. 

With the seconds he was meant to grow an intro, was all wasted until he flinched to reckless drumming, and an underlining bass, all that was supposed to occur afterwards his playing. Hope lost, woe is he as he removed his fingers to the guitar, slumping himself as he sighed. The track soon stopped, the buzz of an incoming voice raced into the room.

"George..?" Dream questioned.

George threw his stare to the window, once more. Making out the puzzlement that laid to everyone in the studio. He felt so alienated to the others of experience that he wasn't spoiled with. The confidence of one was deeply pardoned into disappearance. George didn't name it to be unmotivated, or him to just be grown nervous of the people or nonexistent pressure.

He didn't feel to care.

Nor it to be necessary, George just didn't feel such passion that the blond and raven were sprouted of.

The guitar was held by the back, a palm slayed to bring it up steadily, to his mouth. "Dream, I really don't think I can do this." George had chuckled, trying to dismiss his anxious tone. And he rolls his eyes to nothing, watching as Dream listens. 

"You're bullshitting me. Stop it." Dream lays his finger to the button that sprung his voice into headphones. His expression not possessed of fury, but his voice was calm. Gentle. "When you were practicing, I heard you do it, George."

"Yeah, Dream, but.. Really, maybe I can just go and catch a cab. I don't think recording with me was a go—"

George quickly stops when he spots the figure behind the glass panel remove himself. He ushers away from controls of the studio, cast from the couches that sat in the back, and Dream paces himself to the entrance way. To this, George blink when he catches him open the door, closing it behind him. "Is the guitar too heavy?" Dream had asked when he steps to him.

George only glances down the the strings, lightly picking to unsystematic notes. Tuned to his liking and perfect in his arms. "No, no, it's fine." He responded.

Dream slowly slides the headphones off from the top of the brunet's head, feeling the clumps of his hair spitting undone into his forehead and over his ears. The embrace of cushioning plastic presents onto his neck, tingling to the coldness of solid gray. "Do you not like the intro of the song?" Dream asked swiftly, looking down to him with sickening altruism. Into a room of stretched walls and ceiling, ignoring all other wiring, amps, mics, and instrumentals clattered and littered. And the two stand together, the figures that deemed confusion from the others that watched from the opposite side. 

George squinted his eyes to the question, firstly confused to why he had even entered in the first place. And he averts his gaze to the black cords on the floor, shuffling their laid placements with the heel of his shoe. "No, the intro is good, I like the intro."

Dream sighed. Before stepping closer to George, the space that held barrier was overstepped and made George back himself up. "Then what's wrong?" Dream asked, his concern lighting his irises.

George only scoffed, slowly running his digits to the intro of the song. Sluggish and obvious to his desire of recording. "Nothing is wrong, Dream. I just don't think I'm fit to.. Y'know, do this type of thing," George is effortlessly easing the lies onto Dream. But to a response, a finger is flicked to his forehead roughly, causing George to grimace. 

"You like to lie, don't you?" The taller utters, turning down to the guitar. Rippling of blue and a misty black, coloring to a body and the head of it. "Why don't you wanna do this?" He groaned. "You literally work in a club."

George shakes a brown eyebrow up, "What's my job gotta do with this?" He hummed.

"No person ever wants to work staff, George. People who work for that type of place ought to be ruined of hope and just given up on a lost career." Dream states, as if he had personal access amongst George's mind, speaking aloud so prudently. "Are you nervous or something?"

George beholds himself to run a hand down his face harshly, "No." He grumbled as if he's being scolded by his mother.

"Or are you just normally like this?" Dream insists.

George rolled his eyes, once more, "Like what?"

"Stubborn and so argumentative?"

There was the frustration to melt through his pores, and George could do nothing more but wish to respond back to bicker and groan. But, he had found himself to just lose his words. And he swallowed nothing inside that dry throat of his, aimlessly glaring to the strings. 

"I'm not nervous or shit like that, Dream." George allows his speech. With a good nature, he dares not to attempt to understand a bad one.Alas, only wanting to go home and forget everything to happen. 

And the honesty of his fingertips graze to hard metal, to thin slices of generated music, collecting himself to familiar notes. George tries to ignore such strong cigarette smoke of Dream, that only blurred his mind further and distracted him longer. And he continued, "Maybe I just don't like the guitar as much as I used to."

And to a quiet room, all George is to is wait for something more than Dream's lidded stare. Showing not his impatience, noting of a chill and shiftly draft being pouring to the back of his neck, shivering his skin. Causing the brunet to slightly twitch, beckoning at the warmth that pressed behind him. To arms that snakes over his, he stood frozen, tensly.

"I've noticed you like to bullshit too," Dream sighed, his chin awkwardly perched along his headphones that ran across George’s neck. The leaning of his figure is behind him, temporarily holding George's hand to place them correctly to specified chords. And the brunet becomes a victim of a ruthless shame, shivering to warm hands that calculated the positioning. 

"You're such an idiot." Dream remarks lighthearted, "You capability is more than what you barrier yourself to. You know you're not a talentless hoax like how you humble yourself to think."

George grimaced to how close he was to be, hitching a heap of air, allowing the weight of a head on his shoulder to grow heavier. The blond is careless when wringing George's fingers around to play, the chords mushing along each other. And if you searched with great gratitude, perhaps you may find the introducing tune that Dream tried to make George’s hands fumble to play. "Dream..!" George croaks out, cumbersome to how Dream puppeteered his hands. 

"Chill out, I'm merely embracing you, is all." Dream informed in an unclear tone. Dragging George's wrist to the body of the guitar, making the collection of smuged cords sounds rather devine. But George's cheeks burned and heap to the breathe of gushering smoke. 

"If anything, would you like me to make you play the notes for you?" Dream's bored voice grows humorous, as he breaks through a small chuckle. Catching along George's sleeve and wavering it. "I've been told I'm really good with my hands."

"This is really unnecessary." George admits, through his warming face, watching as Dream strummed his hands by the possession of his. The immaturity of his childish actions are witness to Dream flinging around the other’s digits, and George could hear the urge of the other to laugh.

He could hear his smile when he spoke, "Unnecessary, perhaps. But it's fun."

George's lip tended to curl, his smile obscurely faint and Dream only collides to the strings again. The intro to be messy in the strums. "This is so dumb," George is sighing, soon containing himself to his own limbs and actions. They shake and they break through a tender grip of Dream's, warmth that has escaped to invade of shivering air. Yet, holding carefully above where he was shook off, the hands provide a gape for George to play himself, even if those long fingers graze lightly above another. And George briefly recites the introduction, from the dance of his own fingers. Slowly playing the beginning of the song. Exactly to tune, exactly what Dream had wanted, and his fingers only lightly pressed to the top of George's hands. They rest there as George proceeds to the conclusion of the intro.

"There." George affirmed with his deadpan leer, twisting his neck just so he was able to look to the blond. "Happy?" Then, George laughed. Rather loud, but it was content. Something that sung rarity to his life, and it felt good in his throat. 

Unknown to the other, he had been captured in admiration, finding himself to only stare. Towards a longing moment, the seconds knocked into nothing more than just silence.

George could only punch himself internally to when Dream averts his eyes, as the awkwardness finally succumbed to the view, and George had found himself in sheer humiliation. He hadn't known how long he was staring.

"See? You play amazing." Dream murmured, those fingers of his welcoming their stay upon George's. And they lingered, to the point where it was all the brunet was able to gawk at. Becoming nervous to the touch and how they slowly drew to the openings in between his fingers. They wouldn't have been noticed at first, if it wasn't for their drawing silence that brought puckering attention. 

The blond strung his eyes for George, George only. And for just the moment or two, of their post bickering and the taste of craving laughter, George sold his gaze for Dream. But he could feel Dream's palm upon his, where they preach leisurely along his skin. He flutters short eyelashes, caught glimpses to race down to his hands and alternative between that and Dream. And his stomach is a antagonist for his belching heart. It bubbled uncomfortably, but one couldn't help but swallow the deny of desire.

And with the vast swiftness of George's movement, he tugged away his limbs from the other, hugging the guitar tighter. And he wore a enforced smile, praying for his redness to pry away from a scorching neck and raining forehead. "Okay— I think I can record now— I can record now."

"There it is." 

George churned his gut to it, the feeling of a quaking land beyond grass and waters twist around within his soul, the way Dream had pressed harder into his shoulder. The fog of his breath practically liquefied into night and day. "Your smile, George. And your laugh." The blond continued, and without the capability of grasping the brunet's fingers, he strummed the guitar on his own. One finger had ran along the strings, his other lightly grazing George's hip. Quite the ugly sound, but it only rang louder in his ear than his breathing pulse.

"Feel that way to the guitar like what you feel with me." Dream hummed, plucking away to paced chords.

George only grit his teeth, pressing his palm against the hot skin of open neck. "What the hell does that mean.."

Dream continued with the uncoordinated notes, vibrating in his throat to the tune. "You stress yourself too much." He states. "I may not know much about you, but I find you awfully easy to read. It's effortless, rather fun to unfold all those little secrets you have." 

The guitar notes soon pirouette to amicable remembrance. The song that Dream sung when he first saw him. Upon the stage, with their glare, strung in winsome sweetness. And George sighs to that.

"You're odd." George grumbled, watching as Dream pressed his fingers again and again to the strings. The rings catching along of unnoticed strings, and those braclets took addition of noise.

" _I'm_ odd." Dream chuckled, his eyes traveling from the instrument towards George's face. A chortle that lead to his lips. 

The brunet exhaled, "Quit acting like you know all there is of me." He spoke sternly. "You get ahead of yourself.. That alone, is annoying." George glides his fingers to his own collar bone, running along cold skin. "I find it egotistical."

Dream smiled. "You think of me to be a prima donna..?"

And then, George smiles. "To put it nicely, perhaps."

"So kind, aren't you George?" The blond grinned. "I'll remember that next time you decide to quarrel with me."

"Eat shit, Dream."

The warmth from a petty back-hug is released, the guitar growled shortly to the removal of long fingers. The chin of the Dream's is rippled away from George's shoulder, leaving the heat exposed to a chilly AC. 

George almost felt greedy to want another similar embrace from the blond. Greedy and disappointed. Was that weird..?

He ignored all in his mind, shaking away the realization of what had just happened. What Dream made him feel like. To how gross he felt with himself. 

But ignorance is his very friend. And he overhears the closing door, and a buzz for confirmation of readiness to play. George is responding well, but his attention is locked into his brain. 

Alas, a countdown. One he had failed before. But this time, finally determined. And although still rolling around in those thoughts of the other, hating every second of that.

But he preformed what had been needed, the slow pace before ruining into fleetness and sudden song. Recording every moment of it, the playing is flawless and flavorful. Perfect. So very, it was.

Prejudiced in his favor, he was very. And he didn't know whether to think proud or disgusted. But with the man, he had stammered, pausing in his overbearing presence. Fond of the strong smell of his ash of grey. He should have not, but when he overcame his hesitant matter, he not only offered, but earnestly pled.

All that he wanted gone, he just pled for more. That made George want to either scream or sob. 

"That was good!" Dream's voice is there.

And George enters into the studio once more, the guitar thrown back to where he last stood. 

He nods in return, pushing past the other to crumble to the couch cushions sat behind them. Crashing upon then with closed eyes, aimlessly. 

George glanced to the nearby coffetable, small with a circular wood carrying solemnweight. Lowering his eyes with a droplet of water that glid it's way down a glass, he only admires the liquor contained within. Of a drink to let him become forgetful.

It's humiliating. It's embarrassing. Why must he become this way whenever he is presented with the other. 

Poigant to the sensation..

Boggle his mind of such indulgences..

Perhaps he will indicate the silence with low humming.

It is quaint and true, vain enough that he were to think the way he did. Disgusting him of his senses, and overwhelming the boy. It made him shiver and tremble just to the thought of it. Hell, he's trembling at the moment as he downs the drink quickly. Pouring another slowly. 

He thanks everything he's never beileved in when the others within the studio don't notice. His smile is big an broad, pouring more of the stinging drink.

He fed himself all those fears. He drank to how the liquid hurt his throat, living in it. And the blankets around him were dearingly warm. But not as warm as Dream's hand was.

_George pours another drink._

And he wonders rather sadly. As he swallowed away the intoxication.

Why was he not in the palm in his hand.

_George pours another drink._

Quiet yet obnoxious chatter, fitted with laughter, expelled him from ample reality, and George couldn't find himself in a room full of happy people, but a room full of people he wants to get away from. A man he'd never want to see again. A man he doesn't desire to be dead or alive, but just gone. Gone, away from him.

_George pours another drink._

The brunet grapples his vision, everything churning in view and blurring away to the alcohol. A sensational feeling he wished he could've delt with sooner.

_There is no more liquor to pour._

But he was able to coordinate his head to look up, the mushy view of Dream. His words unable for George to even understand, as he just blinked dumby. Funny enough, that he's gotten himself in this mess. Maybe one would laugh to the idea. But George could only scorn within his presence. To the other who was witnessing the innocence he was assassinating

_I want you gone._

"Dream.." 

_ I want you  ~~ gone ~~ . _

"I quit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!!!  
> fuck you i love you!!!!!  
> :D


	4. weeks without warmth.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i just shit myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey lolllllllllll gerge bouta get in deep shit, thank u to whoever it may be reading, means so much to me!!!   
> anyway chapters r gunna be so fast since im on a rollll but yeah here's the chatperh :P

Merely to dream of being free.. George felt his control finally lining into his course. Speaking, repeating the words of,

"Dream, I quit."

Albeit, slurred and his vision burdening a defense he tried so hard to keep up. He knew that being around him would do nothing but hurt him more and more, and George became more frustrated because he didn't even know why. He didn't know why he abhorred against the man.

It was tiring, and George didn't care if he were to admit it all. And confuse himself even more for suffocation.

It's tiring.

It hurts his chest.

And there wasn't anything he could do about it.

"I quit, I quit, I quit.." Kaput letters that hung over his throat and stung his chapped lips.

But..

George could do this.

"I quit."

Must it be so cowardly and discouraging, to which is very misleading. But it was the only option for the brunet. A distraction and a beautiful pathway from the burning in his gut and the stinging in his gullet, the only thing he's able to muster and return.

He was going to find his freedom, and run away. Like he's always done.

Remember not of the remainder of that day. George doesn't scorch against how he has returned home. And he doesn't want to remember how hurt Dream's face had imprinted into his mind, no. 

It's lovely to forget, it's all he wants now.

And through his headache of a lamentable hangover, and transplant his process of gifting himself of a shower and his customary work clothes. His mouth tastes disgusting, just like regret. But his lips are pressed and beaten into a thankful smile.

Of course, George looks back on this.. Remembering of how he beileved himself to be safe and untied, such a dire boy thought of himself to be free. George could only shake his head to how naive the fool of his younger self was.

He was once a simpleton before. But past along his odious troubles, came forth the sincerity. Alas, all comes with time, but reminence upon his younger days.

After the day at the studio, George only returned to his job. And all he did, was work.

George held himself high and proceeded with strides throughout the bar and backstage full of such unnecessary credence. Connecting bands' wires here and there, navigating himself inside descending darkened wood and vibrating walls. The pasted marker imprints and graffitied brick walls of the bathroom, he surrounds himself in. Taking along others' jobs, careful not to scuff the packaged bandages that stuffed his pockets. 

George never really asked himself to why he still carried them around. And besides.. He'd just ignore the truth of it anyways. 

Mornings felt so much more lighter without his worries and distrust of himself. He'd awake as one normally would have, and begin his very day. Even if sometimes he found himself to grip the sun in a dry tub whilst clutching a telephone neglected of a dial. And he'd dress himself as the record player sung in the background, finding a way to sting his throat worse than the night prior. Recite the repitition, every other morning.

"Hello..?" George remembers himself to have croaked into his blankets far too warm for him and the frigidity he laid in. Buffering enough for a coughing awakening, all he is able to hear is that distant piano vinyl. The bathroom floor hugged the brown box of the twirling instrument, not allowing George to remember his night before. Or how many times this has happened already.

Emptied of stupid emotions, George wakes to the tub unfiltered of water, and he sleeps comfortably. Collecting dust in those eye bags and pinching his nose to his unwashed sweater. Hair unkempt, spurn to his unlikely decision. Not caring if he had missed work yesterday, or the day before. Straying away from appearing on Fridays. 

Ever since his departure of the brief band, his days upon employing Fridays were stripped deliberately. The communication with his boss never commenced of his doings, as he slept in anyways. Sleep was good, it's embracing. And as a month whirred to the repitition of a gifted vinyl, he misses work more than he engaged for to happen.

But he was happier.

And he feels happier. 

True to the belief, he feels himself growing back to how he was before, before all of that had happened. Before the telephone and before the record player and before the tender sincerity.

Where George had catered himself to being content.

He is happier.

"You're fired."

Painted so tiredly, unhappily, yet so angelic, George slumps against an itchy chair. Of an office that has been confined to the weak light and the ugly, reminding smell of powdered remedies, and that desk he remembers when he had first been offered his employment. Where months ago he was colored glee and stoked. But now, he only dissapoints himself more. Barely managing to throw himself to a shower and tossing aside his blue of a sweater, rejoiced to a thickened one. Raining him with sleeves of brown that tossed around wide stripes, dressing him to his hips. Although wrinkled, he clutched the hems, his eyes widening upon the man in the swirly chair. Briefly slapping away the clustered hairs that sprung into his face, tucking them away and coughing up a, "What??"

The man sat behind the desk shrugged slovenly, adjusting his glasses via middle finger, "When's the last time you came in, George?" He speaks as if he is bored, thus matching his expression. Sitting back in his chair leisurely, he awaits the response of a man who trembled to more statements.

The question of his only plant George's nerves bulged, and he wiped a palm down his cheek with digging nails. George stutters, "You.." He's almost angry, yet unable to settle a finger to the rationality. And his mind reflects to his hours slumbering pleasantly. Either mattress or the odd confliction of the bathroom floor. Where the time echoes loudly from the clock, banging and vibrating the ground more than the stage had. He's angry, but at his own circumstances.

George's fault, wasting himself to a record player of piano and implanted cigarettes.

"I came to work yesterday.." 

It's not a lie.

Or.. It is a lie..?

George was unreasonable when he can't even depict what releases from his lips. He refuses to admit what hd can't remember.

"Last Wednesday, you showed up." Comes the answer, from his boss.

It surprises George, even if he would've expected it. Today, he wakes to a the chilly wind of a Tuesday. Therefore meaning, his days were missed to a streak of five days. Causing the brunet to hold his tensed breath. 

And George grumbled lowly, inaudible communication that the other man didn't seem to care about. Whereas, he carefully hums, "There's more jobs out there. I'm sure you'll be lucky enough to grasp one."

"I can't—" Choking out so desperately; it's disgusting, and his cheeks are beaten pink. His plea wishes to indicate to the other's sympathy— or his pity, George would gladly take either. But he couldn't lose anything more.

"You can't..!" Alas, his fury blossomed from his pores, clapsing the volume of his voice. Overwhelming him towards furrowed eyebrows and the frown on his face. His tone no longer a plea, but uncooperative acceptance. Yet, it's a weak demand. The power he wished was stripped by stultifying intimidation of his boss, who was playing with a pen, the clicking of the metal paid more entertainment to him.

George's eyes stay dilated to the pen, a finger pressing down again, "Ah." He inclined. "Don't make this.. like.. weird." He squints his eyes to cringe. "Y'know?"

George exhaled shakiness of flavorless air, rolling his fingers into brown hair, tugging lightly. "I'm..?" His speech was terribly troubled, only sputtering out nonsense and gibberish. 

Remaining inside his expression of light shock, receiving the other who looked like he was about to yawn. His head hurt like hell, his limbs were rubber and lost their battery of nothingness. 

George's sentence remains unfinished, as he popped his knees up, his feet rooting down into the dirty carpet. Out of his gratuitous frustration, he whips himself around, the chair tipped roughly until it fell. Harmonizing with the slam of the door, it would've shook the walls if the blundering bass wasn't already at fault. The brunet bleating lowly out of disbelief. 

And he scrimmages through the waves of the crowd, washing him of his pitiful irises that claimed his shoes. Desperately squeezing between braclets spikes and the awful smell of alcohol, he is sprouting outside. Faintly, he overhears the fair share of guitar and drums from inside, a rippling screaming voice flattering the rumbling walls.

_I just.._

The only thing he was able to cling to, all that to supply him of his earnings and rent. Scampering for relevant timing as the sky soon bruised, covering his shadows with the sidewalk as night was returning to him again. 

What is he to do?

_That didn't just fucking happen.._ George thinks to himself as he clings onto the bus handles above, the palms more sweaty than before. That seriously did not just fucking happen.. Unconvincingly, he just repeats everything that has happened within the corridors of a tiny, office room. He's not willing to become accepting, even if it's his only option.

His lips are riddled of cuts, the redness of his abuse only fuels him to lift his weighted ankles onto his apartment steps. Carefully holding his hand to the golden handle, his key slung within.

From the house of the neighbors', the kids sprung along the small sections of poorly grown grass. Their mindless chattering group and grow, high-pitched screams alarm George and water splashes make him turn his head. Spotting the pirouette of their tiny bodies, they throw around the water balloons, careless of their location landing in George's own sidewalk. Why. Why does he become envious. 

The kids don't pay their mind against George's light boggling, the sad state unnoticed gratefully. And he discards the happy scampering of those, dismissing himself into his home, whilst locking the door behind him. 

The shoes are found scattering on about his kitchen, paving the path of his devastation. And his index finger grips the white counters, his panting self stares down to the newspaper. Collected from this morning, the stinging in his throat strived more than suffocation. In fact, the burning traveled the transparency to his eyes, the flutters of blinks scurried his vision. A gaze of the headline, plastering a blurred photo below of scruffy blond hair and a smiley mask that made George grunt.

"You just follow me everywhere, don't you.." He released in a whisper, carefully adjusting his digits onto the paper, creating creases and rips in his grip. And it was rendering him to drag his socks over clutter and garbage. Leading himself to the carpet next to his bed. Obscure enough, the piano of Liebestraum danced quietly in the corners of his mind. Alas, continuing to play from his bathroom.

But George slid himself down cowering carpet, his back crushing to the mattress sides, as his fingers calculated themselves towards a dialswitch. His dresser wobbles as wires had worked their way down, allowing George to hang his ear against the cry of buzzing. 

_For George._

George heaves a long, lengthy sigh, as the buzz had continued to ring. Awaiting for something other than this scrutinized noise. 

_For my tender sincerity._

He hates those statements more than anything of himself, eating away the inside of his cheeks. It's repetition, of their very cycle, the indecisive ways of George. He hoped that he was able to be praised of forgiveness.

George waits.

But the buzz is diced and riddled away into voicemail. And he could feel more than his gut follow short of plummeting.

He should've expected this.. He should've expected this all. George allows the phone to fall from fingers, the light yellow of color draws its fall to his lap. Soon, he collects the twisted wire, plopping it back to where it correctly resides. His telephone terribly chipped from how much he has thrown it prior.

George sighed, sipping the wind through lips of yearning. And he truly wants to begin an early sleep, but he was shaken awake. From the dresser, it exclaimed through the vibrating ringing. From his head hung in his arms, he lifts it up abruptly from his knees. He isn't to know if he should feel excited or worried, but his hands think before his mind, leaping up to yank the shuddering telephone.

Of his tremble, both George's fingertips graze against the end of the phone, holding it dearly to his ear. Why is he nervous? It's unnecessary, stop with your quiver.

"Dream..?" 

He is quiet enough, but his voice sounds so loud in his ears. Coating of the stupidity of desperation. 

Shortly after, a voice welcomes him on the line. 

"George.."

His eyelashes flutter away to the returning. He hates himself for how it felt so good to hear his voice again. How is there a mixture of anger and thankfulness in his soul, he wasn't to know, but he just grips the telephone tighter.

Dream chuckled lightly, "Don't let the excitement spoil your vocabulary, George."

The brunet allowed his hand to crawl into his hair, exhaling leftover exasperation.

"For the love of," George grumbled airily, "God."

"Is everything alright?"

George groans at his voice, loathing his decision to call him in the first place, the guilt settling to make home in his throat. 

"I'm a dick." George grunted, letting himself break. "Really, Dream, I—um.." He trailed off, closing his eyes. "I gave you no explanation, and that was really unreasonable of me."

Dream hummed. "What's going on with you?"

"God, that was such a shitty apology," George murmured briefly, before he continues. "I really shouldn't have quit. I should've stood with the band."

There is silence, before a preparing breath of Dream's. "It's been a month. I thought I've already lost you."

George crinkled his brows, opening his eyes to shoot to the ground. And he processes what was said. Trying his best not to wilt his spirits weirdly. 

"I told Sapnap for to wait, y'know? And for us to not go looking for a new member after you said you quit." Dream uttered. "I knew you'd call. Even if it was longer than I intended or expected."

George nods, even if he tumbles his head with perplexity.

"I told you to come back if anything ever happened." Dream said. But the memory of a statement didn't rock anywhere in his brain. And George takes a quick moment to re-encounter his memories of his times with Dream, nothing ever pricked of the sentiment. 

"You did?" George questioned, blinking.

"On the car ride home, I did." Dream stated. The was a blank pause for any bells to be rung, but George doesn't speak his reminence, and it's honest. "I doubt you remember." He added.

George grimances. "I don't. I'm sorry."

"Don't be, don't be."

Hesitation strikes his stomach, and he is a little too careful when overthinking a response. Or exactly, what he has wanted to say to Dream, an apology. He didn't care for an acceptance of it, he just wanted the very point across, dearly. "Is it still possible for me to—"

"What are doing right now, George?" Dream has interrupted unnoticeable, the question causing the other to suck in his breath. Glancing around to any attentive matter, to which only dust remains. 

"Ah. Nothing.. At the moment." George answered warily.

And he listens intently, biting his lip. Sure enough, his fingers had loosened over the phone against all else Dream was to say. His finishing only allowed George to buckle down the telephone to its body, his figure quickly bounding his mattress. Collecting his shoes once more and a required scarf for brutal weather. As he drifted himself to the door, excitement bubbling greatly.

There were such symmetry between the two. So cheerful and obliging. 

Even if George calculated his steps on the side walk, debating whether or not to speak of his freezing temperature. 

"Do you care for milk or sugar in your coffee..?"

There is a gentle question, from Dream. As the two have landed themselves with in a 7-Eleven. Peering bright lights poured to the standing out two, especially the tousled blond hair of the other.His neck leaned down concerningly low from his unfortunate height. The glimmering necklaces jumbled from abundance over steaming brown liquid. The both grew over the counter, to purchased coffee.

An outing. George forgot what these felt like.

And rather, he should've dressed warmer for such occasion. Alas, the scarf and thick sweater wasn't to do the trick.

"I actually don't drink coffee, Dream.." George slowly says in the height of hesitation, a little too late for refunding as Dream was already ripping a package of sugar. The white beads trickled out to the counter, piling mess.

Dream blinked. "Oh." He said, looming over the two untouched coffee cups. "Neither do I." Gently placing the sugar packet down into a bin, Dream remarked.

"Then why are we even buying it." George stated plainly, with lidded eyes. 

"Ah, I don't know," Dream turns to George, who inches his head to look up at him within bore. "I just thought you'd like it." The blond admitted sheepishly, upholdingbrief chuckle. 

It was so simple. And yet, the two began to giggle, dumbly. Attention brought back to the unwanted coffee.

"Could we fix up coco instead," George had suggested shortly after.

To which, Dream smiled, diving into his pocket for dimes and cents. "I suppose why not."

The two exit back into whistling air of night, traveling from the sidewalk to unknowns. As for George, he drinks queitly upon the lid. A tad awkward for their first meeting after a month, and afterwards such a drunken breakdown of his at the studio.

But they walk, along very streetlights and blaring cars, excusing themselves from others that accompanied the concrete walkway.

"Aren't you worried people might recognize you?" George softly inquired, glancing along their area.

Dream cocked a brow, whilst he sipped the warm drink. "I've never revealed my face. They wouldn't know even if they were to hear my voice." Dream scoffed, before layering his fingers upon stars. "I'm not against that brink of fame, George." He states, before adding a quick, "Yet."

The Brit hummed, stuffing a cold hand into the baggy pockets of his. 

"How famous must you plan on being?" He asks, genuinely curious for his dedication.

"To the point where girls ask me to sign their bras, perhaps." Dream chuckles lowly.

To which, George replied with rolling eyes, sucking in his lips. Soon exhaling, after.

"How modest." 

_How perverted.._

They arrived to a stop walk, the glaring red hand taunted them from the other side as cars blinked past. And George taps the designated button for journeying path. Taking a few cricket beats before there was twinkling green alerting the two. 

"And I hope for you to be there to see." Dream adds rather ominously. 

Where George nodded, suggesting in his meek agreement. "Ah, yeah, I'd rather not." He responded, gulping down some marshmellows. "I told you, I'm only playing for you for a little bit until I'm able to find an  _actual_ stable job." He had repeated, lowing the cup, licking the access upon his upper lip.

Dream dangles his head back, the strings of a sly scruffiness reaches the middle of his neck. And for a moment, he is smiling wide. Just to nothing, like a lost little boy. It made George squint his eyes oddly. 

Soon, the blond spoke, "You have a thing with wanting stuff to always go your way."

George scorned. "Are you dumb or egotistical.."

"I'm whatever you want me to be," Dream returns within a hum.

"I want you to be dead, then."

The two knows the falsehood of the statement, as they response each other with airy laughs. 

With every so kind eyes, Dream grimances lightly, a smile still presented to squeeze those freckles. "I do know one thing, George." He commented.

The brunet is intrigued, as the both of the palms that rested neatly of the cup, encasing warmth into his fingers, he listens. Leering to the light green tee tucked underneath his jacket, as it flew to the commands of the wind. 

"And what is that?" 

Dream turns to him, "That you leave yourself so unexplainable, at times." He said, tapping against the white paper cup. And George finds cheek skin pinched in between his teeth. "What's the deal with your hate towards playing? I would've thought you'd be adoring at the idea of renown viewings."

George ticked his head into a hand, massaging fingers into sprung hair. "I don't care much for that kind of stuff.." He dares to admit, rueful.

Dream permits their descending quietness, the vague of their voices are soon trapped. And somehow, Dream is finding his way around the tensity of George. 

"Let me guess.." Dream signed. "You suffered broken bones? Or maybe a family member fell ill and you suffered the circumstances?"

George had paused to estimations of his past, speaking aloud as if he was bare witness against movies and poor acting. But, George thanks his reality, rolling his eyes. 

"No.." He answered slowly.

The blond only questions more. "Not enough money, or such?"

"No, god no.. It's not that,"

The two of them pass a vacant bench, their figures resting hold near the placement. The wood begs for the position of comfort, but they stand and continue forth their conversation. George only wishing for it to end sooner.

"Then what is it? I'm curious, you know." Dream acknowledged, plummeting his brows together. "Don't tease me like this."

Again, their silence. As George remembers his miserable time of the city. Of how it made him squeeze his eyes a little more to every memory. He had reason to be filled of such embarrassed.

"I was just.." He exhaled. "Lazy, is all." A light term to put it. "Or maybe, I just.. Gave up."

"Unmotivated?" Dream suggested, as he pressed himself onto the bench. 

George follows soon after, taking his spot perched next to him. "Ah.. No, no.. More than that." George feels himself finally striving for those feelings he's never opened himself to. The terrible conditions he was captured to, before. "It was all just pointless." His lips move slowly, tasting nothing of chilled breath. 

"I expected way too much, I suppose. And was granted of defeat. Only natural." George is smiling, almost thankful for such nonsense. Dream leans into bench, as he grew more interested into the murmurs of his blabbering. "I truly doubt that I will get anywhere." George stated. Turning to Dream afterwards, "The same with you."

Dream lifts the both of his brows.

And George was quick to dismiss the unnecessary comment, lifting a wary finger, "Ah. No offense."

"You're doubting something that's already in the process," Dream is uttering, the cockiness is defined sharply but in the kindest manner to muster. He is rotating his view to night and dark blue. "I am able to will myself, and I'm capable of looking good while doing it too." It's a light joke, but he shakes it away. "Really, George." He confessed. "I'm gonna make it. And I'll be sure that you and Sapnap will be with me all the while."

Such a genuine smile that spoke so authentically, George didn't want to come forward to the vanity. He was meant to eat humble pie for Dream, apologize and move on. But he's drowning to his gentle ache, of how kind he was to be. 

George could forget about this all. Return to his home and sleep away the trouble. He may, he would, he really should, but he couldn't go back. Only death awaited him there. 

"I feel like you pity me."

George confessed through his muffled scarf. The nose burrowed into blue wool, tainting him of the humiliation he was painted of.

Dream granted a stiff pause, until relaxing. The benign laugh of his bubbled deeply, glimpsing to George true and quaint. 

"My dear, I give you no pity. It's rather insipid." He spoke, George tasting the dryness of his mouth once more. "There's nothing to pity. You are an awe to view."

"There's nothing to pity?" George returns with his scrunched expression, shaking his head slowly. 

Dream nodded. "Believe it or not, but I'm rather sympathetic, if that makes anything better."

_That makes it a whole lot better._

"I remember being in your position," The blond recalls. "Wasn't very pretty. I can imagine it's not a beaut to be in your shoes, huh."

George rests his neck to the line of wood, upholding his view as he scoffed. The weight that had flew from his shoulders, the difficult clicking of Dream lighting a cigarette, and how George was comforted to the company.

"I saw you on the paper," George smiled.

"Mmm.." A responding hum from Dream, finishing up the lighter. "I look good?"

George ponders on how to answer. How to lie. Once more. Becoming charmed, and rather envious.

George scorned to the joking title, his mannerisms a jest of their conversation. "You looked like a jackass with your stupid mask, you cocksucker." The brunet insists.

"My sexuality has nothing to do with this, George,"

It's a quick returning, and it made George pause his pursed lips. Soon enough, he whips his head quickly to gaze among him. His calm expression growing alert as he held up a precious palm, indicating his lighthearted joke.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding."

George blinked.

"Oh."

Was all he had returned.

But George just comports himself, shaking away something he thought was to be serious. Wasn't any of the Brit's business anyways, pure blather to ridicule towards. 

Although, George adjusts himself into their quiet wind, straightening his back upon the bench. Raising the cup yet again for consumption.

"I plan for a show soon, George. Later on this week," Dream is announcing, his lips whispering smoke into blowing air. The streetlight carried it and swallowed the grey into vague beauty, to which the process continued. 

George nods to return, finding his anxious spirit long gone to the speak of shows.

"Sapnap and I thought of it to be a good idea with you presenting our opening song." He said, ushering light pressure in the commencement. "It'll be a good welcoming of your new member profile. Strung out guitar, pretty and skillful." Dream smiled. "And I know someone for the ability,"

He's staring at him, squeezed eyes from his stretched smile that gripped to his upper cheek bones. Those lips only reeked the excitement he contained, reeling in no reaction from George.

The brunet stared back listlessly, the lick of the wind traveling through brown and occupying the mass of strands. George gazes, before taking another slow sip.

"Don't look at me. I already live with enough regret."

He almost applauds himself for the comedic witticism, receiving a chortle from the blond.

George adds shortly after, squeezing his finish paper cup into a newly home of trash, "I've forgotten how grim you are. Honestly, it still bores me."

Dream's neck jiggles, bobbing amongst his apple to a huffy laugh. "So very nice, aren't you, George."

"Bite me." He returns, uninterested. "Hand me a cigarette."

George is quiet enough, but his comfortable frame is opened to their nightly occasion. As he extends his hand, the expectancy of a deserved drug is a conclusion to pleasant tales. And he awaits for a miniscule weight to be upholding into puffy skin. But nothing is attending. 

George stares down at his hand, but shortly after the inconvenience of an uncollected stick, something is prodding along his lips.

To the rawness of his skin, George flinched as he flutters his lids, adjusting his view to a cigarette being passed to him. Via not finger, nor a customary box, alas.. The lips of the other. The lips of the blond, unconditionally unbothered.

Lacked of concern, their faces are ghastly close, for Dream is awaiting for George to gap his mouth open for the acceptance of the cigarette. Resting and balancing tidily to his twitched bottom lip. 

The patience of the disconnection drives Dream to speak through his muffled state, the cigarette quivering along his holding words. "Take it, George." He strangled, hastily.

Not to inform him once more, the brunet pressed his lips to the end. And Dream removed himself with his eyes dripped of nonchalance, tucking away his attending box.

Soon, Dream's prior, lit cigarette is popped back into the blond's mouth, inching back to George. Wincing, the brunet still confused and rather insulted to how calm the other was to be. And with Dream's burning drug, the kindle of ignition is transported to George's. Allowing scratching ash into his throat and to shakily exhale his fluster.

George is none for taking words for a thank you, as processing was too much of a task as of right now. Attempt oneself to collect himself, pinch the cigarette between fingers alongside his blows.

Calm.

Is all to be.

Dream is unknown to the overlapped nerves of the Brit's thoughts, as he did play well for fabricated mannerisms. And yet, the cold plays along his body and skin. Jittered enough that he trembles, not to the fate of his unsettlement.

But wind and loathing air, chilly and raining a haunting chance.

Dream has noticed the cold affecting the other so unkindly, and he commented. "You're cold."

Ah, yes. Perfect, obvious, not one flaw of such nature, Dream states the clear observation.

George is not enough to a rash huff. Hair is bounced with his nods, not disagreeing his mind to the remark.

George swallows enough of the smoke, unaware to the noises of crinkly clothing sprouting nearside him. Not understanding the weight that was urged towards shoulder and spine, he blinked to black leather coating his sweatshirt. Hefty for the man, he peered to Dream's jacket sworn onto himself. 

"I don't mind," Dream spoke, before George would even think. "I insist to your comfort."

All these words.

All of this remarks this idiot shall proceed, it's nothing more to George.

Never to overwhelm himself to Dream any longer.. He promises himself of a temporary design. As he still believes him to be nothing but an accessible employment.

And yet, his tainted of blossoming ruddiness.

Was that not gallant? George had wondered, clutching the sleeves of a cigarette-scented jacket of leather. Loathing of its oversized nature, finding it rather insulting to his own frame.

The stars churn to continue, the buds of cigarettes are bluntly smashes into wasted bodies of ash. The warmth that they once contained to the bench is overcome with the cold once more, their shadows scribbled from the streetlight. Traveling with the wind, to the doorway of George's

Dream is gentle with his eyes.

"Goodnight George." 

The brunet grips his sleeves coldly. 

Disfigured from a kind response, as he only nodded in return. Closing the door behind him, and ushering the redness on his cheeks.

"Bye." George responds quickly and unemotionally.

Dream.. And all his idiotic adjustments. George falls asleep in that jacket, breathing in adopting treasury, waking to rumbling piano vinyl. And the ringing cry of his telephone, the morning call lifted from Dream.

As for today,

was George's first show. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pop off king! let ya nuts hang !


	5. you'll know me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> george's first show, and getting to know eachother a little more
> 
> or something like that i don't fucking remember what i wrote

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> looollllll i accidentally took two weeks off cuz i was feeling a tad unmotivated but I'm back again!!! more writing for u fuckers to feast on >:D all kudos and support is so appreciated i adore u all thank u!!!!

Sometimes, George wondered if the state of such humiliation was the utter party favor of his environment. If, perhaps, the company did not mind the wallowing or took spite against it. And he'd whine, he'd nag, and he'd complain once more to the man in the mirror or those being at aid. But as of right now, George could only itch at his neck, grumbling to his pairing design.

"It itches, Dream," 

There it was, yet again, another complain to his attire. The clothing that drooped along gentle shoulders, exposing him to the shuddering air conditioning.

Dream peers back, cracking his neck to look behind him, to spot the struggling brunet. "Really?" He answers, spiritlessly. 

"'Really?' What do you mean 'really'?" George responded hastily in high-pitched mockery, mimicking the stoic expression of the blond. To which, he only drives his view up and down to George. His eyes caked with interest.

George contained his urge of unnecessary curses, though, only transmitting his mind for that self-reserved nature of his. Communication of his uncomfortable fluttering blinks and the glares of the outfit was all to be said. Sliding his eyes to return Dream's, taking ignorance for the blond's observation of his figure. The brunet is gulping his guttural exhale, and picking at loose skin as an alternative. _It really fucking itches.._ George, a man not much fond of over-dressing himself and not to care of expensive wear, cowered to a corner until he would succumb to soigné clothing.

"This is gonna make me sweat, Dream," George lowers himself into a nearby seat, settling himself kindly as the blond continued to dress himself. His feels rest aside to grip underneath the white chair, lasting him chilly rods until they plucked from position and back upon his neck, resuming the gruesome itchiness.

As for the brunet, a thinly woven sweater tattered to a light degree of a corner, a certain style that George would never understand. The gaping hole that was meant to lay around his neck is stretched by design, his shoulders peeking out as they hugged his upper arms. Perfectly dug into placement of his skin, allowing his undershirt of a white tank deemed defenseless. And the length of the sweater drug to his thighs, outlining amongst the folds. Masculine to bear and welcoming against the eye. Enough for the baggy pants to be scuffed to simple shoes. He felt embarrassed, tad cold. But the wardrobe insisted so, speaking that it was perfect for George. The blue sweater was well admired by the others on stage, which allowed his concern to dwell no longer. And he discarded against the dresser to do anything to his hair or face, leaving bare and combed. Alas, nobody could ever resist to shedding, powdering black that was lightly splattered underneath the corner of his eyes. 

"Well, at least you look good," Dream tried inquiring lightly of his smile, only to turn to a deadpan expression. Belonging to a brunet who continued to fidget and scratch to an abrading blue. The two share a silent glimpse of each other news misfortunes, the pause of speech growing awkward. With that, Dream soon digests the dismissal of his kindness. "You have to admit, it looks nice on you." Dream speaks, adjusting his jacket.

George looms to the leather that slipped of Dream's sleeves, only remembering how those same sleeves embraced his own arms last night. "It's only one show.. What is this all about." He sheepishly utters, digging a palm against his neck. An accessory that has been loosely clicked to the gullet, spiking along a neckband. And he thumbed his digits along the studs of spikes popped from the black choker. "You and Sapnap really get this prettied up for one measly show?" George grumbled, sliding his index underneath a stud. "Wouldn't you find that tiring?"

Dream travels his fingers along his groin, tightening his belt of those lowly raised jeans of his. His outfit dressed the same as how he first saw him, of those cut off sleeves and the resembling black color. "Tiring, no. Exciting, yes." Dream responds, sighing to a lengthed mirror. "Besides, you said you'll only do this show thing until you find a job. You keep that promise of yours." He speaks.

But through the mirror, the taller's eyes locate upon George, the raising of brows coordinate in sync. "Of course, unless you find yourself to enjoy this as much as Sap and I do."

His tone is rumbling lowly, upon the backstage where noise is sprouted from practicing drums and low chattering. Effortlessly, and cruelly inferring that of which George didn't want to think about. The brunet shifts himself in the seat, shaking his head gently, "Doubt it." Arguing back, he watches as Dream hooks his mask over his face, a smile the only witness to him. "Don't get your hopes up.."

There's a muffled chuckle from Dream, as if there was even anything to laugh at. But George was eager enough to ignore such, rolling his head to a soaring ceiling. Of awfully high railings, spearing and sworn all around. Where heating lights above are flickered of uncertainties, George admires the very act. And wishes to give condolences towards the staff. All scampering around to reminence like little working ants, the light platelets cuddling their hands and wiring plugging into the guitar and bass, everything George remembers doing. 

"Does it feel weird?" Dream is asking, bounding George's chair quietly, with a cord following and trailing behind him as he walks. Picking to his bass, reciting his melodies.

George hummed, crossing his arms. "What feels weird?" He questioned.

"To be here," The blond shrugged, before continuing. "You were staff prior, correct?"

George answers slowly after his pause, dripping of hesitation, "Uh-huh.."

"Roles reserved now, since you're the one preforming and they have to set you up, now?" 

George gently admires the darkness of the overcoming curtains, only awaiting more to his washing anticipation. Milking the worth of an electric guitar and tiring attempts of his days, where he wishes to smile. But he contains himself, as he did not desire to become attached. That was the last of his desires, actually.

"Makes me feel weird," George answered, licking away at his lips to a sour tone. And it tastes like relief, and bitter joy.

Dream listens intently, generous to his words. "Weird?" He is questioning. "How so?"

George sighed. "I don't even know, man.." Honestly stating his mind, his spine is brushing deeper to the chair, his hands continuing to fidget along the speckled studs of his neck. "Like, I feel nervous."

"Okay, so you feel nervous," Dream states.

"Well.. no." Comes the response.

Eyebrows plucked up in confusion. "You just said you felt nervous?"

"I don't fucking know, Dream," As kind as he's able to muster through the grumble, George leans back. He ignored Dream's earnest gaze, and cracks his knuckles, fueling himself of subjecting energy. Popping the bubbled air of spacious bones, they cry out with every indication. Before any else was able to exit from the blond's lips, George hastily spoke, "I just hope I don't mess up," 

And Dream is quiet. And like growling clouds and irate rain, the corner of his lips are twisted. He smiles, haunting the next of his words.

"With a pretty face like yours, it wouldn't even matter."

It's echoing, and it feels wrong that the enjoyment is bliss. Echoing once more, letters that paved confusion and a voice that was only more harmful.

And George grits his teeth, mourning to the affect of his statement. As he craved not of the unwavering man.

George was honest, he really did hope he wasn't to mess up. That would be the bane of humiliation, a spoiling fruit, to be alongside two other professionals and trip from notes and screws. Complimentary flattery wasn't a game he's able to play, he doesn't strut of confidence and able to paint his expression of it. His body couldn't sway sternly and root his feet to a rumbling ground at a mist of a mistake. He couldn't do any of those things, he wasn't anything like Sapnap or Dream. That worries him greatly, and only feels the quiver in his knees as they position themselves behind the curtain.

It's muttering, and the murmurs of other beyond the curtain, into the house of unknown certainty. As for George has never traveled to this part of town, as for George never entered this building before, as for George has never performed anywhere besides the confinements of belittling bedroom walls. Slung over his shoulder and aiming a slight tug to his upper body, the guitar is held stiffly. In the dark, where he's barely able to see either the blond and raven. 

He did hope he was decent. George did hope he looked fine enough for the people. But he scorned to his smudged mind at his dear want of justification to faces he'd never see again, how silly of him.

"Dream.." The bubbling pounding in his chest grows unbearable to frame, uncaring that George was near to forget the song they were meant to do to open. And as George whispers into a silent stage, he's open to the two men that spark turned heads. 

Dream only lasts him a moment of a stare. It's nothing but a mask. Sheerly rotated towards a viewing direction whilst strands of uneven blond is rushed with it. His hair bounced to the turning, to George who depended on withering ease. Yet, he turns back the second he creaked over. And George wanted to call out once more, but Sapnap leans towards him, despite the mass of space they were divided from. George blinks as the other props a thumbs up to the brunet. Blurry, and companied of an unkind vision, Sap's smile is broadly strung.

"You good?" Sapnap has asked, as if it wasn't an obvious picture. 

But George is grateful for his concern, biting a chunk from a rattling heart and he sends back a smile. A tense body is slowly breaking from nervousness. Once frozen fatigued, and slipping through his stiffness. The thumbs up and question is not enough for the trembling to completely shake away, but it's enough to help George feel better. Knowing of the company he was within, he calmed himself.

He's careful to be quiet, alarming to the inching crinkles of corduroy red lifting and revealing slices of gentle light. His feet are automatic to flinch to beaming brightness that are found on his shoes. "Yeah.." Quickly answering, before returning to watch the curtains raising up and above himself and the others. And he blinks towards the rows, and stinging alcohol that stained the air.

And there are figures.

There are people.

Here, the screams of Dream and Sapnap's name, excitment and exuberance of those who awaited probably hours prior for this very moment. 

It's deathly dark on stage. 

Alas, soon sparks the lambent of glaring orange is hefted. Heating through a catering light, it glows over Sapnap, Sapnap only. A seat that was kept neatly along drums, to a man of a white tank, baggy black jeans to boot, such a classic white bandana that casually hugs the puffs of raven strands. Reaching for the crowd's reaction of promising thrill. George sucked in some air to how loud they were to be, and he thanks his unlit section of darkening so that no one was able to see his expressing discomfort. 

That orange layering among Sapnap continues to bloom. His head hung, bought of a smirk that tugs to his shaved cheeks. Allowing one or two seconds more for the crowd to buffer their shouts. 

Until shot from a different positioning of the lower stage, there is green. George overhears a gear shoved and ringing accommodation as the light dawned. Doughty to sharp neon, the circular formation grants over Dream. Where once to be the pitch of black, now is a blond coated of the neon discoloration. His figure is amused to the screams and delighted, gaped lips. 

"Dream," The brunet whispered, but it's only engulfed from combined screeched,

Dream rests himself and that lanky body to the microphone stand, dangling his rings to click the metal and tap coiled wires. And George ribs only remember their ache, scraping friable bone and mountainous dents. Preoccupied with watching Dream coo to hands barged from the array, he watches steadily. Knowing it's best to ignore his sheer regret. All rest to bare, where George continues to stand inside. Only waiting more for that next cue, spending his breathe on it. And his body blunders from the incapable control of paced inhales, increasing and increasing.

There are more screams, louder than Sapnap's, aching George's eardrums as they growl from cluttering ground to shaking brick walls. All to a tall man possessing a smiley face. 

"Dream.." George whispers, again. But out comes loathing breath, a whisper not of tempting sound. Silent and dead, only to dry up on his tongue and bitten lips. And it's not smitten to the slightest, as George knows that he's to be next. Of a tainted light, raining on him, to a hue to fondness. 

He wants to croak another plea of Dream's name, but he's too late. 

His eyebrows are dimpled to his saddening uneasiness, and he squints his lids to a lever pulled down and revealing the beam of blue. It's here, and finally to reveal George's appearance, the blue is an act of awkward command. He clutched the guitar roughly now, hearing Sapnap's developing drums behind him. 

And although it does not meet a dent in the resonant cheers and screeches, George does spot the puzzled looks, George sees fluttering confusion along lines of people to his unidentified placement. He does not blame them, Dream had comforted the idea and confronted him of the expectations beforehand, which George took to the consideration. 

George glanced to Dream. Knowing it was soon his turn to begin playing, and to finally show what the practice presents him of. The mask does not change feature, but it turns to him. A mic near, humming lowly the tune. As George missed his cue already, wishing more and more to just scamper off higher wood and searing light. But when he got a nod from the other, despite the coverage of his face, he couldn't help but feel an foreign prod to shepherd the corner of his lips higher. 

And it was encouragement. Dream had selflessly given George encouragement. Strong and spoiled with confidence, blossomed from a tranquil nod. How was he able to do such a thing, still puzzles him. But rather, he mustn't think of it. As of right now, he finally breaks the strings into sound. 

The platelets of colored glass are settling into containments of befriending light, once were fearing, but just assisting rays to coordelate his fingers of the guitar. He plays briskly and to how they rehearsed. To an aid of background humming, George copied the hyme and pasted it onto cadenced vibrations.

George glimpses to Dream and Sap, as he's smiling proudly, his chest not hurting as it had so unkindly before. Sap beholds a grin, ripping his focus on the drums, continuing to a battling rhythm. And he, too, is gifting the buoyancy to George, depositing something that continues him to swirl fingers and such. 

Dream's singing begins lowly, arid enough to scrape concrete floors and create carving designs ruthlessly. It caused George to stumble a tad, hearing it clear enough. But he composed himself, gutting the recreating notes of the tune. Repeating them for the song, and he.. enjoys it.

He enjoyed it?

George's playing was craving, and uttering comfort is beneficial as his heart rumbled differently than from before. He shifts himself from his stance, his shoes piled along the other, and he removes a hand to adjust the sweater from his thighs. Folds that were pressed over his skin, wrinkles that were smoothed out. 

There is slight stammering in his playing, but it's enough for him that there isn't crowd slander to his name. Instead, he finds himself to notice that the eyes grow more on him than Dream. It's striking him puzzlement and obvious strung knots infecting in his stomach. 

Being self-reserved saves himself, as he doesn't let the emotion melt through his facial formation, continuing awkwardly of his playing. There is a rush in his veins, something he never thought he'd feel. Soon, the next song had appeared. And he's continuing, the songs fly along the time, through jumping figures to the bear and the pits of moshing. And through another song. And then, another. He never admired it from this angle, to peer to the individuals that Dream maneuver's round the stage for. Through wiring microphones, Dream's stinging rasp, and the heaping rush found in George's gut. 

"Dream." Voiceless, even if George manages the sound of his voice, it was inaudible from strident drums.

It was blundering from below, from the side, from above. It shook and trembled the pebbles from an outside parking lot full of cigarette smoke that was engraved from a midnight gaze, the brick walls were belittled from influence. The mixture of all they offered, Sapnap's drums and Dream's murmuring of harsh singing, and even from the gentle fingers of George. 

Selcouth, George would consider it to be.. But it was nothing more than pure rush to him.

George is soon to realize this, long after their farewells, after George's proper introduction and welcoming from the crowd, he is propped into an opened trunk, clasping the bestowed rag that had been passed to him. Tucked narrowly within the rear of the car.

The moon is the resemblance of a lamp, crumbling down through gashes of visiting clouds, amongst the pending parking lot. George is sat warmly, a weight to the familiar leather jacket, belonging to one dear. He was presented next to him in the comfort of the car, as well, the two silent. His teeth cleaned from a water bottle, a parched throat soon fulfilled of pondering liquid. And the possession of that energizing emotion is coating his chest, still feeling quivering of his eardrums and the numbing of his digits. As if it had never left, where it sprouted and bloomed winsomely to never be plucked. He never did mind.

George gripped the rag, his eyes dialating slowly towards the grasp. Watching it clamber offwards a blond's fingers, of his glinting rings and his own clenching jaw, the rag relaxed into his neck of sweat. Clenched loosely to gather along the coldness of his traveling thrill.

The rag tickles across an elevation of the collarbone, continuing to collect moisture of his panting figure. Soon, he glides across his forehead, meeting his fingers to assemble clumps of brown to be pushed back and off from his face.

"Wow.." 

Breathless, he released into producing air, coloring the night with his words. 

"That's what it feels like."

There's a squat pause, cueing Dream to curve his head to look at the other, still out of breath. His chest to raise of vulnerable air, then sink back down. Where he receives moments to trail the view that conferred within the opening trunk. It's quiet, but George likes it that way, fond to the idea of their communication of silence most would deem uncomfortable. 

"I'm fucking cold, George," Dream unfettered within a chuckle, glaring along George's clutch of the jacket he's been stripped from. With his unwise comment, his finger ache up and find his lips, locating the cigarette to drink of it. 

George is smiling, enough for his cheeks to begin to sore from their formation. And he shoots up towards the edge, where Dream had settled himself, and he adapted himself of the mannerisms just to mock. A stare, a glare that was met with taunting grins of accursed desire, George lidded expression is sufficiently seldom that he scoffs. Until the smoke of a stick is sugared against George's face, blown for the brunet to writhe in. Dream's lips are curved, the gust of airless, grey breath spread upon pale skin.

Soon, Dream crinkles to the imagery of unexpected coughs and ruthless choking of the clouds, his dryness wheezed more smoke to George.

"That's fun." Dream concluded his cries of laughter, drifting the two fingers back to lips, the cycle yet to repeat. Despite the occupation of his cigarette, he muffled out a, "I'm freezing my ass off, George."

George wavers his wrist to the puffs, swaying against the unforeseeable act, rolling his eyes to petty trickery. But George returns himself to cup his own cheek, the crisp of air hitting him as he sets his elbow to his thigh. A chin that is laid so comfortably in a tender palm, George uttered, "You think you're oh-so funny, now don't you?"

He knows the answer before it is even formed into auctioning statements. And Dream grew it from such unnecessary cockiness and spewing, nonessential conviction. "Yeah, pretty much."

The two giggle along eachother's breached annoyance.

George feels his lips to wiggle, and his eyes are somewhat squinting to the harsh quality of slurred wind, his cheek bones to raise and to welcome next of exhaustion. Greeting a yawn that stretched his lips, his free hand to smother said mouth. 

"Tired?" Dream had inquired quietly to the other, a gaping mouth to soon close politely. And George begins to flutter eyelashes from squalls of impacting air, all more to hug the jacket tightly.

George sucked in a bottom lip, twisting his head to stay clear from merciless wind. He hums, before nodding of agreement. "No shit."

"Had a good time, yeah?" Dream asks. "You sure look like you did."

And George swoons, only remembering more of how his fingers ache on this moment. "I'm so glad I called you."

Of accountability, Dream nods to the response. His eyes yet to be torn from George. From his body to be hung with the vastly stretched size of a blue sweater, threw over with his jacket conjoining with the same factor. It drapes, carelessly to both frame and supervising mindset of the one who wore it. Dream only whispers engaging smoke, the last he's able to muster, he contained his glimpse longer. Strung upon the boundless, gratis neck that only carried the spiked choker, travel towards prodded collarbones that produced out generously, Dream transfers his glance to a mindless glare. The moon in reflection upon dainty skin, a series that shortly led him to travel to the hem of a sweater. Where it has fallen, and where it is drug lower than intended. Untidily and revealing, more skin that Dream had been imposed to mistakingly see. Gulping air that tasted beguile and faulty, the blond is quick to jerk himself from the divulged chest of George's nipple. So bare, so sinful, Dream doesn't hesitant when he hops himself from the edge of the car.

"I'll drive you home, come on," The blond is rather hasty to his tone, where George would wish to reply of a copied manner. But Dream threw his cigarette to an uncaring black concrete, tossed before digging into dying light of the bud. Squished into crumbling ash and spitting the remaining of all it was no longer to offer. 

George just awaits the small act, until, he too, is slipping his body from the back of the car, "Okay..?" He mumbled, attempting to ignore Dream's expressing of something the brunet didn't understand. And he's confused, but doesn't pry, proceeding to resolve himself into a proper backseat.

George scratches along the floor of a trunk, rearing himself from humming thin carpet, the areas that weren't occupied of unsorted instruments. Such rememborable, tangled wires and the swirley knots of bundles that have been strung along bunched corners. He proceeds onwards and off from consuming interior, discarding that of shitty hanging trees that were weak of their scented coverage. His shoes scratched the concrete, light tumbles pebbled and remarks them of the brightened reservation. They scoot, and George bounds himself the tires of the car, noting of Dream clutching the ends of a trunk. Heave once, until effortlessly decending it's location. Sounding a crackling click of the placement.

George sneers towards the air that was profuse of its harshness, mourning his grief at hair gathered no more. Propped rudely into cheeks, where he briskly wipes. His finger chucked itself to the cold skin, where he picked the narrow strands. The brunet caught them as he flew down, his annoyance yet to be of dismissal. Ousting that of which was disturbing him, he carried himself into his seat. 

Open and vacantly desiring warmth of him, George is oh-so courteous to settle himself of confining softness, even if his left thigh was bluntly prodded of a weighted amp. It's grey and poked of the speaker, one they've used this night, but it didn't stop from George's bitten lips to be persuaded of his emotions. Coiled along his consciousness, his eyes flutter a little more with his aching exhaustion.

As nights before.. He's familiar of the view. 

Chuckle once, he does, before a reviewing scoff is imprinted alongside a sheepish grin. Not enough of slumbering discomfort for him to consider it a remote nostalgia, but he remembers when he had first arrived himself of a seat. A seat that he now claims of his own, to appear of a swung car door and peer his chair that's now titled and signed consciously of his name. Saying that he owned it would be quite the outlandish statement of perplexity, but it was a seat that Dream argued of placing any instrumentals there. He'd dispierce the thought of any reminence to be crumbled of the section, dear enough for George.

A car drive where George wonders where the authority was to be, noting of all the very reddened lights Sapnap were to precariously shoot from. Gravely taking a reckless approach of the vehicle, not a care of the universe when they find themselves grazing another car or when the wheel somehow finds itself to quirk. Either Sapnap's distraction of meaningless bickering with a blond or his occupation with eating a cast aside burger, they'd be found on an opposite of the road. An reasoning example of why George is securing his belt, and tugging the grip for his safety.

But, the two seats in front of him waver, the both perched people not meant of the seating. George doesn't notice for the moment, almost letting his loosened eyelids to draw him to a blackness, but he sucked in his lip. A blond who dug the keys into the engine, buffering and vibrating until growling correctly. Dream had struggled enough of the vehicle's unsuccessful coughing, spurring the quivering lowly until it had blasted of its readiness.

George only stares, his perplexity is well observed from the top mirror. Rounding the compressed, circular figure where it had contained Dream's eyes that were roughly invaded by filaments of drugged yellow. Conversing the green, they notice George and the expression.

"I'm driving this time," Dream had noted, his view stood in the contents of a tiny mirror. George returning their gaze, but they transferred to the seat that wobbled in front of him. Shut from the passanger's door, a Raven sluggishly piled himself to the seat, a thankful and lengthed sigh released. Sapnap courses his head of the headseat, and George is slow to twist his chin. More confusion that is humming through his nose. "Sapnap's tired." Dream commented, a little note.

_Ah_ , and George could understand that. And he sympathizes with the condition Sapnap had been subjected to. The both of them are found with similarities, a tired fatigue to be washed of their frames.

"I hope you don't mind." Dream had insisted, removing himself to prepare of the car. The engine was running for a few moments, until he had fixated the appropriate knob. Clutching and out from their parked arrangement.

George is open to the idea of a switched driver, more-or-so fond of it, perhaps. It's nothing that he'd stamp his foot upon the ground for, or shudder a shaking head towards. He welcomes it and hope is grown into his chest. 

Never had he be in the presence of Dream's driving, but he let's his expectation to be blinded. His body ushers up in his inhale, a chest that awakens highly and is his gratitude is paid no more than a cheeky grin. With Dream, his fingers are gently loosening along his seatbelt. The design was bent, carelessly transcribed of its wrinkled grasp. But his palm is eased down, with his other, drifting into one another's intertwining. He's never been able to do such matters with Sapnap driving, and that is amusing to him. And cocky enough, his laziness allows himself to relax the back of his head to the rest.

Dream clicked the mode to drive, and George peers at him, with eyes that are just ready to lure him to sleep. The blond corrects his practical posture, grown into his own seat. Both hands upon the wheel, and coordinated their drift of an uneven parking spot they were previous left from.

George is relieved as Dream fixated along the exiting of their vacancy, leading towards a rather spotless street. A car or two to be drawing into the streetlights. And George contently wished nothing more but to have a quick nap before home.

But it's abrupt. It had practically slapped him awake ruthlessly, and shriveled his shirt to shake those eyes of shot open. 

George had flinched amongst a terribly sharp turn. It had brought himself, Sapnap, Dream, and the passengers of instruments and cords with it, sprung to the left and caving in the brunet's stomach to rise. He jostled with the amp near him, a yelp to be cried but silenced from a car's screech. 

George blinks, terrified of how he was barely grasping the pretty hand of reverie's tenderly a second ago, but now he scratched his fingers into the seatbelt. No longer is he to be tired, and he widened his eyes to the car fastened to the road. If he had misunderstood, he could differentiate the color they had passed. Either it be orange or red, but all he knew is that his body had been pressed back into a seat. 

"Dream, what the fuck..!—" Angrily, George had yapped from another turn they shaped to. Rocking himself to the right, this time. His skin stabbed with the edges of instrumental habitations as he was rudely cornered into a concerning window. 

The knee of Dream's is comfortably confined to the space of his body and the wall of a car door. Currently, it was doused of its unworried nature, planting the same carelessness to Dream's face.

He's surprised to the outburst of George's, blinking as he steadily holds his singular hand to the wheel. His other was freely popped into the air, an index to answer the agitation.

"Not right now, George, I'm driving," He responded, as he had proceeded to glint to the indicating orange. The space from the car and a painted cross walk was easily enough for a steady slowing of their speed. A guess gone wrong, as the car is screaming it's stomped breaks, buffering to halt just in a nick. Barely— and George uses that term lightly— barely grazed the thickened lines of the walk way. 

And George contained his widened eyes, panting his terror of something that should've been so effortless, but was deadly.

As for Sapnap, he doesn't wink or shudder discomfort of the dreadful navigation; only his head had been affected exceptionally gently. Swayed from different corners of his head rest, his eyelids not to be fluttered. A miracle that George wished he was able to experience. But, alas, he is weighed to a seat that might imprint his body after such a ride.

He's guided and torn through the blurs of dark sidewalks and the lights that embodied stores. He wasn't even able to read the lettered words from the shops, or even able to count how many people were within his scene of image. Concerning enough, it's even more concerning that neither the two are even phased. Smudged not of inconvenience, whilst George is in the back clutching his surroundings as if his life was to be stripped if not. The scenery is all amongst his imagination, becoming more annoyed for Dream's rash and incautious behavior. It's annoying him even more.

But he noticed his environment to be cleaned by their transportation, and he fumbles to that. Taking the great mark of how there were to be less and less trashbags to be squandered along sidewalks. Or tents that were planted near fractured windows or boarded entryways, quivered of the disgust of relentless rats. The cemente of such didn't looked so cracked and hidden with piled litter. But growing less of the specifications, and driven into lights that were bigger and were sprouted from buildings that were broadly built.

Despite the discomfort of a zooming transport, George lifts his head to his window, gleam and shine upon shops that he hadn't encountered. Billboards to be about, glowing with divers colors George troubled to correct from. But all he knew is that it was.. Pretty. 

"Dream, I think we're going the wrong way," The brunet almost hesitates to inquire, his fingers jagged near the car window, drifting a pinky to fogged glass. As if he were to complain, but he's fond of beautification to scenery, boggling his thoughts more of confusion. Maybe even a little panic.

George awaits his response, resuming himself to the grappling struggle of his view of his environment. Such clothing that is draped from a glass opening, powered lambently from rays above. And it twinkles the title of the shop, which George admired towards. And he takes no mind to the red carpeting of a vast building. There are those of elagancy, soigńe and boasting of odd paradisaical as they enter of restaurant. Dresses that have flowed to their swindling heels, hooking their arms in a connecting other of a suit. Allowed from the supervision of one clad in an ornate suit, George swallows his saliva at modernization of opulence.

He never did recieve his delicate response from Dream, too cultivated from their surroundings. Even if he was mangled stridently from the vehicle, tossed here and there, and to send his glares repetitively. But they drift where there wasn't much light found, where shining letters to commercialize a designated store and or sublime restaurant had been catered with their turn. Still visible, nonetheless, but George quietly whined along their brief cease.

His body is strung towards the back end of the passenger's seat, the welcoming roughness of fluff had greeted his face abruptly. The brief tug of a halting car was a culprit, and George contained his cursed fits, finding that he'll release that anger once in the comfort of his own home. Bundled warmly in towering sheets, showering of small scratches to his cat, if he'll let him at least. But, George isn't appointed of his own apartment.. And instead..

"Hold on—" Dream tampered with his joystick, fondling quickly of his frustration, with a slight panic that was painted on his lips. George shoots his dagger, but that didn't change the fact Dream's parking was unpleasant to bear.

A building, oh-so high and oh-so bright of charming lights gaping out through windows, none to be touched of thrown rocks or fracturing bodies. And the building flew tall, and George wishes to admire the entrance.. If it wasn't for him being flung around so treacherously. Of the fault, in the palm of the blond, continuing to try and park the car.

George whimpered lowly, his voice almost burnt into a groan, "Are you fucking seri—" He tries, oh how he attempts, to even say, but his body is smushed along his chair.

A car that is neatly parked behind them, glint of that red taint that's colored from the rim and rear. From the door handles, easily ran down from the opening of the seats. Not speck, nor dust particle had dared to even intrude within the trace. And as of right now, Dream cursed to the difficultly of parking himself in the captive space in front of that car. And George could practically tear marks into his seatbelt from his discomposure.

George peers through his window, just a peek of a light surrounding of red mush to be seen, before it was yanked from view. Thus, he twists his neck to try and see their process. Whilst Dream clicks spine and neck, limb and lip, all to ease himself to perfectly place their positioning.

And George almost applauds him when he notices their tracks to be held flawless in designated concrete. Relief, piercing his muscles and bloodstream, to exhale heftily. And yet, all to be taken away, once he hears a jolting  _bump!_

"Shit—"

George freezes, and Dream paused. The both were slow yet so quick to cater their mouths open and allow the tired shock to plaster itself to eyebrows and widening lids. There is silence amongst the sudden calamity, where only the brunet and other stare to eachother. As if George had anything to do with it, he's more annoyed than his expression of staggering disturbance. And soon, the red car cries the alarm, bounced off the alerting sirens and beaming for the next town over to hear.

And Sapnap, of his unknowingly aspect to what was happening is groggy of a stretch. Grunting the hiccup, as his eyes are struggling to even open, hoarsely croaking out a, "Are we home yet?"

And George groans, whilst Dream hastily nabs the car handle, proceeding of the three to race into the building that had towered before them.

"I'm never letting you guys drive me again," 

Frustrated and gathered not of his proper emotions, George only throws himself through an elevator door, shining the opening of silver and his morphed figure. Sprung within, after ignoring the delicacy of the main lobby when they first arrived. 

Sapnap follows along George. A tad sore of expression, but he curves himself a tired smile of his sheer amusement, all for the beauty benefit of spite. He leans into the corridors of the elevator, and hummed, "Baby go cry cry, huh?"

Dream, next, propped himself with the two. Awaiting of the others, he tucked himself spaciously, allowing the doors to close and leave the three. His hand is directed towards the various buttons along the wall, the wall punctured of the bounding numbers and creamy color. An index finger anticipates against the lower of numbers, causing George to cock a brow.

Not his first fixation of brows, either. Probably a fifth or maybe tenth. From their entrance of high strung ceiling walls of a lobby, to felted couches of red that were company near, and even George's wide glimpses to a built-in cafe. Tall, tall, tall, oh all of it was nothing George had the luxury to even see. Let alone, walk within. And still, he needed answers for his well-being, a dumb move of his to just be dancing into an unknown home. But still, he quite enjoys gossamer admiration.

"Oh come on," Dream had scoffed along his grin, peering through closing elevator doors, the sound of a car alarm that was growing faint. "You're being dramatic, George, my driving wasn't that bad."

" 'That bad' ..?" George echoed, all shock he once had dissolved soon after they had collided with the car. Drying and printing defunct, but he wasn't afraid to ooze any reminences of his frustration. The brunet twists his neck, squinting his spoiled composure. "Even Sapnap doesn't even drive like that, you goddamn psycho."

His words are rough, but they are meaningless against his disgruntle, letter by letter to fall as the elevator rose. Sapnap's smile warmly stretched, a witness to bicker and quarrel. Then, Dream just softly shrugs, nothing more but an innocent response of, "How about you drive then?"

Dripped of that mockery, and stung with arrogance, Dream holds his hands behind his back as if he wasn't guilty. But, George rolled his eyes, his shoulders to go limp and expression dull. "I don't know how to drive, Dream." He responded.

And the blond cocks his head briefly, "Well, looks as though we're at an impasse.." He concluded, just in time for their carrier to shift to a stop and the elevator doors to drift open.

The two only stare to each other, layered of melted anger and childish eyes. And somehow, it's blossomed light hearted. And George couldn't help himself of his broken chuckle. And Dream returns the crumpled laugh. To where, the both giggle away the disappearing tension.

Enough for a passing, their gaze is dismissed, and the three exit from the boxed corridors, where they trail the hallway. Admire this and that, George hummed to carpet that wasn't unfit of wood, and peers to wallpaper that isn't slightly torn of edges, and it's all untouched and flawless. And George wonders..

"What the hell am I doing here anyways?" He questioned to the two men, urging to follow them through the extensive carpet path. Dream glanced back to him, allowing continuation. "I need to get home, I'm tired."

Sapnap soon engaged himself of the conversation, where he's arrived to a door, orange that awaits a key to be impelled to the slot. "Yeah.." He spoke slowly, his eyes clock to Dream, who perched himself to the door next to his. And his speech is processing to wonder, as well. "Why is George even here, Dream? It's kinda late, dude."

Dream hummed, pausing to dig in his pocket, search of the fabric until he yanked a key. Where it was stored in golden embrace, clicked through rotation. And Dream stared to his own shoes, until following to Sapnap, but dipped back to his feet. Perhaps, he too, was searching for that answer, but only George stood mindful for his response.

"Hm?" He produced, but he holds a tongue until continuing. For a second, he even glimpses to the brunet, who stroked his fingers along the hem of a black jacket. Yet, Dream shrugs, simply confirmed an exhaling, "George was tired."

Sapnap stares, lingering for the either punchline or jest towards his statement, but the quietness just led on the conclusion of the reality. But Sapnap only expressed nothing more but exhaustion, through his sluggish shrug. Insisting to opening his own door. "Alrighty then, I guess." The raven responded, sliding his knob to open.

But before he's entering of his comfort, he stops. "Also," Sapnap murmured, His head poked from the doorway, as his black hung from the white bandana, he extends his arm out. A gentle woven fist, it's working to the wall and he knocks twice. Fingertips that graze the wallpaper, Sapnap fixated his softened glare to the two others, bound from one to another. "The walls are thin, so.. Be mindful of your neighbors, yeah?"

"Sapnap.."

"Sapnap..?!"

The call of the name overlap one another, correlated from flustered extent of surprise and enervated scoffing. The inferring of such a comment made George twist his lips rather disgusted, but anything more and Sapnap escapes back into his own home. 

Persuaded enough to an uncomfortable expression, George pressed his lids down, glaring towards the closed door. Until he grumbled a hasty, "God, what a dumbass." 

Dream shares the same facial structure as the brunet, a small moment of his emotions to bear within the lasp of time. Although, not lasting for long, as he opened his own door, shoving it open. Dream takes the leisure of entering, George still in his stage of discomfort from the unnecessary remark, adding a small, "Who does he think I am? I wasn't even the one who decided to come in the first place.."

With passing moments, George patiently waits for an additional statement from the blond. Either disgust towards the Raven or maybe consolation that it was just Sapnap's nature for not-thought-through declarations. Beat of quiet, but he's assured with noisy footsteps upon polished tile. They regain George's reality, to which he turns his head to the direction, and he beholder in front of him an open door.

Big, big, big..

All of it, big.

"The fuck," George sneered, an odd way to show his admiration along vastly spread tile of the apartment. Just the welcoming view was enough to shame George's cruddy one. 

Dream dangled himself along kitchen counters, strung so long and wiped to shine so perfectly that you'd be able to spot your own reflection. Despite that, the pizza boxes stacked carelessly among marble unenchanted sublime scenery, but it was predictable. And George greeted himself inside, carefully adjusting himself to such opulence of the apartment, assuring the close and lock the door behind him. "Oh.." George ushered the mumble from his lips, his whisper being slightly cut off from jitters of beginning music notes. Whirring of a record player, George blinks to Dream who's settled near the couch. His fingers strum the circular disk, until a rod kissed the surface, lifting susurrous piano to paint the cold room.

And it's familiar. 

George's ears prick to the very beginning, welcoming back his days of when he awoken swiftly in a cowering, cold bath tub. With all but the piano piece of 'Leisbstraum' to excuse him of peacefulness. "Nice apartment, Dream," George pipes in, slowly pondering the floor to travel towards the smiling blond. "I always imagined you to leave near a dumpster or maybe your parents' house."

Dream scoffed, his tongue slipped a peek to dribble his sarcastic mockery, "Ha, ha, George. Good joke. From which direction did you pull it out your ass?"

George signed, soon to return a tired grin. Dream had fixated himself along the brunet, beaten frail from jejune delibity of their extending day. His hair only drooped a mess over forehead and ears, managed to reach a tad in the middle of the neck. And he glares to the large windows, peering below of lights and buildings. Almost bashful towards how high they flew, how the figures below were able to fit the palm of dinky hands, and the way the moon doted to their presence. The picture of two friends, found in the comfort of the bonding silencing apartment. 

George allows the quiet to rest, but he serves himself with logical consciousness, his murmur awaken a, "I regret that my stay may be short."

Dream's eyes grow lower, his neck contently hung, "You just got here?" And he snaked the humorous tone in his voice.

In return, George shook his head, and sheepishly tugs the jacket closer into his own body. His eyes following along the floor, staring to the couch. He doesn't halt of a reaction, but he does take the tendency to ignore the bra riddled along the edge of a couch armrest.

George cleared his throat, bubbling up the wooden scratchiness, "Let me rephrase." He begun, forth his continuation with mistaken listlessness. "I don't regret my stay here to be short, how about you take me home now. I wanna go to sleep."

Sliding his mind over the command, Dream leans against the glass. Windowing two of him from reflection, and Dream hummed. He takes the quick glance to his couch, then he chuckled, "Don't take everything Sapnap says so literally, George, you know how he is, y'know?" He wavers his palm to sort through George's abnormal uncertainty to his strange jealousy. 

George grumbled, shuddering himself to stuff fingers into pockets. He equipped the air of the piano song, a placeholder that allowed him to process his thoughts. Soon, he glowered down the building like towering superiority. "Wasn't even thinking about that, I'm just still wondering to why I'm even here with you. Didn't even mention anything to me about coming over to your place."

"You're quite fond of that dreary confusion," The taller nods slowly, before poking him of explanation. "My place was closer, and I doubt you'd stay awake the whole car drive. I thought I was being considerate with my offer of letting you crash at my place. Was I not?" 

George is only interested to the ground. Chip crumbles that were sent the mixture of clumpy, brown cat hair. Stilted more of his manner, he only grimanced at the admitted response. Traveling his irises, it layered to the vinyl, twirling the blackened motion. Until he lands on Dream, who's only sincere to agreement, waiting more for George to pick up his own voice. And soon, he does. Rolling his eyes to shrivel a cold, "Very thoughtful of you, Dream." He said. "But I don't think your girlfriend would be pretty happy for me to be here at this hour."

George returned to advert his eyes. The swiftness of a tugging eye direction tumbles around the directing thoughts in his head, but he keeps himself align with something else. Swaying shortly of lengthed brown, and dote of a discerning pounce to surface along the scarlet couch. The cushions plop of the gentle weight, as green eyes blossomed the view strung to the brunet. "Girlfriend?" Dream echoed the repetition, as he was muddled with the assumption. Whilst the brown cat that dug herself within blankets cried softly a meow. 

But George only ushered himself from the window, the slow paces that round the couch and are directed to the exit of the door. "Mind calling me a cab, yeah?"

But Dream trailed amongst the cushions of the lounging settee, his steps picked up their adjusting speed albeit the unrequired necessity. He's quick, but not as hasty. His fingers, gently chilly and careful, as they grasp George's quickly. "I don't know what context your brain is confused with, but my intentions were clear from the start. All I abide by is just voluntary for you to stay at my place." Dream inputs, fingers leaps from his side to a brunet's. George winced to the warmth of a palm, a slight jolt from a sudden stop. "I imply nothing weird, it's just an innocent and simple offer." Dream exhaled, his tone tainted with tad annoyance. And he sighs. "It's like you adore the idea of avoiding me."

" ' Avoiding ' you?" And sprung to an edge of his covered forehead, George rose his brows to a statement. An expected glare appoints to his seizing palm, and clenched not of flushed turmoil. Instead, he sends another roll of his eyes, tilting his head in the process. "Dream, I asked to go home. I'm allowed to be mad when you take me here unknowingly."

The hand cradles his own, a slight shiver that is presented crudely to faint shoulders. His sneer quick to writhe, and he looked down. "It just pisses me off, is all." George sighed, even if his wording was incorrect and was feeding of fabrication. He inched himself further from eye contact, twitching to his mistaken ideals. "Maybe I read the situation wrong, then."

They're quiet. Awkward wind that slowly crept in through warmth and blossomed of their hold. And crooked in the corner, George heard the muster of a cat once more, singing delicately. And Dream hummed, as if he ever did anything indifferent of that aspect. 

"What about me makes you so mad?"

_Huh?_

"Huh?" 

George whips himself to Dream once again, and even if his expression is nothing more but devoid of his emotions, there's the light hint of that pang. Something the brunet wasn't even sure could be accomplished, even if he was incorrect. George was never the best of his reading skills, anyways. 

Dream lightly tugs, fetching him into his direction, which implodes the unexpected grunt of the other. But the blond staggers along managed floor, the clicks of his footsteps loud from faint piano. "What about me makes you so mad, George," Dream repeats, his feet circling around George, all the while their hands never to part. It's uncomfortable, but George is more concerned about Dream's unreadable face. Unrealistically, he couldn't name off anything of lidded exception and a tainted smirk. He sinks into implied seductive leer, and he doesn't like it. He doesn't like it one bit. 

"What?" The brunet is more annoyed than anything, tracing Dream and his maneuvering figure.

"Not even regarding our little situation of misconception, I'm just curious," Dream paused, stopped in front of the other man. Still a bit weirded out, but he's still in tact with the conversation, George tilted his head once again. Before Dream pulls him along with him. A small grunt had emerged, but it's quite soundless. To offbeat tones of the piano vinyl, it's all they have to coordinate their messy swaying. Even if George is doing a bad job, and getting drug around half the time. Dream took ahold of both George's hands, inputting the two into sluggish waltzes. "I'm gentle with you, George. Must I be gentler?"

The brunet scoffed, scorning to something so ridiculing. More annoyance is oozed within his rash feet that were scraped beyond tile floor, and it's gushered to paint his expression. The irritation seeps in rough limbs swung through Dream's pointless baltering he drug George around in. "You don't have to be anything," He spoke. "Because you're not anything to me to begin with."

It's harsh, and deathly cold, but George intents for it. Never did he long for friendship or intimacy, that was all fruitile in his favor. Attachment is child's play, and out of his reach, so easy for him to ignore. 

But Dream just smiled, as if any of those words were sharp enough to pierce. He only twists the statement to taunting material.

"Bullshit. As if we're not friends."

Their movements rounded smoothly, George becoming compatible within Dream's decision of off-timing waltzing. A left hand held throughout shortly strung paced reservations, and George fell into slow steps. "We're not." George responds coldly, resulting their small dance together to halt. Dream pressed his boots to the floor, crying a squeak from below, and George gladly stopped with him.

And all but wild wind of pleasant piano is swirling around their presence, a moon that creeps into view and glaring angrily.

George averted his eyes, oddly afraid that his response had grown harsher than intention spoke. 

And yet, something warm.. Something so pointlessly.. sweet.. grasps ahold of his free hand. Healing his thoughts and reeking assurance from the palm.

"Do you not like how I am?" Dream asks.

It's a slow pause. So, so slow and stretched out, he could feel surroundings to blur. Blackening dilated irises, the feeling grew independently within his chest, And George felt.. Sort of alone with that statement. As if he couldn't feel the other's limbs mangled into his. When his whole body wasn't present in the dark living room, but he could feel himself being cradled in his bath tub again.

Deserving with freezing air, a temperature so ruthless and uncaring to his degree.. Like how he has awoken from days prior, mediocre and haunting him so disgustingly. George feels alone, and guilty. His eyebrows furrow into his sorrow, and lips churn to the emotion and controlled until thrown down. And he remembers his faucet, noisy with its leakage. He could remember every drip of it, and how it was so quiet and fatigue. But as of right now, it burns into his brain and the drip is grimly loud, enough to make him wince. And He's captured into something he wished he's gotten rid of. Something that yearns to hurt him. 

Something that makes him rot inside. 

"Or maybe you just hate my guts, huh?" Dream adds after George's refusal (more-or-so an noticed realization) of speaking. 

George is rippled back to reality's mush, from Dream gently yanking his arm to resume their pitiful waltzing. They lightly tip the couch from misguidance of their direction, the cat splayed amongst the softness blinks in irritation. Perking her head up, a tongue wiped across their nose, scratched pink. Until it pressed her fluff back down again, approaching to ignore.

George blinked, now whipping back to look at the blond, reserving his scowl. "No, I don't." He answered, its truthful and pretty. Yet, he followed along in their circular rotation, Dream urging to gather pebbling tiptoes to follow. 

Dream continued, a deadpan yet sweet look that tainted his lips. George hadn't remembered the last time the other had blinked, which was quite worrying but nevertheless it doesn't spoil their gaze. "Is it that you think I have a girlfriend?" Dream spoke, and he fluttered those stupid little eyelashes of his. Leaning a tilted head towards George, who only avoids him by swerving his neck away from such. And George scoffed, shaking his head. "Because I don't." Dream confessed, quirking the corner of his lips to a smirk. They pass by the bra amongst the couch, collecting dust. George blinks to the clothing piece, whilst Dream noted of a, "Suppose you hate me for having hookups, too, hm?"

Beyond their traveling bodies of connecting swaying, George tumbles his eyes again. He rolled them through the rebellion he desperately grasped tightly. As if it was any way to hide an embarrassment of being wrong. Never could he admit it, never to behold the condolences of getting ahead of himself and sprouting misconceptions. Alas, he mustn't sheepishly swallow his pride. Instead, he allows a ringing silence to roll the dice. Soon, finally breaking their quiet wind, of a lethargic, "You're stepping on my shoes." 

The both don't acknowledge George's choice of ignoring and or changing the subject, but sort themselves into adjusting along carpet. Dream looked down for a moment, humming as he situated his own feet as if it wasn't George's own positioning at fault. "Do I have bad breath of something?" Dream asks, resuming his guesses. It's spoken jokingly, with a smile to boot and encourage. 

And George, finally cracking his grin amidst his wooden skin, he uttered, "Maybe."

To which, he could feel Dream press his feet upon his own. Purposely to the corner of his shoes, the tips of toes to make George wince. But the two giggle amongst the playful demise. 

In return, the brunet stumbles along their broken sputters of twirls. The two grip to each other from spoiling dancing, but their stance is contained. Standing quietly, enough to hear the cat's purring besides them.

But Dream, of ruining a mood, he murmured gently. A simple question, still coated within his humorous chuckle. An idiotic smirk that only George loathes more, he's sunk into that jokingly hallow frame. Dream leans himself down a tad, just so the two were aligned flawlessly, where the brunet could practically taste the second-hand cigarette smoke. 

"Is it that you like me?"

The stammers of rhythm buffered George's mind, blurring it from his understatement to the English language and any social skills he's ever learned in his beholding life. Never had a smile been cleared from nimble lips so quickly before, it probably would've surprised him more than the question itself. But still, he's almost frozen. Even the cat, as if it was able to comprehend the language, her head poked up. Softly brewing a  meow that was fueled by George's widening eyes.

He wishes not that it could appear on his face, but Dream too only responds with quipped silence. As always, to something that could be avoided. But George slowly— painfully slowly— gathers himself again. Shook away of that shock, a sneer to answer. 

"Excuse me?" George replied, his tone rotten as if he was offended. 

Dream shrugged. "It's only a question." His gaze lidded from tender lashes, puckered to the blankness.

And he said it as if it were nothing. As if a question like that wasn't dribbled with sensitivity. Not that George could be so kind to feel the passion of emotion, but still, never could you refer to it as 'only a question'. Just the same to how George could never refer to Dream as  only a pain in the ass, it's obviously more than that. Woe the reaction of George shaking his head with vexatious glares, exhaling a, "Yeah, it's definitely not that."

_It's definitely not that. It's not._

The two overheard another exclamation from the animal, the cat coughed out more of meows. Dream squeezed George's hand, a sign or notation that he understood. Simple enough, he slowly rolled his head to the side. Tilted as his eyes dawned to avert, catering to the cat. George blinked. And blink as he will, and that guilt crept behind him. To his throat, and thickening the skin inside. 

"You hate me," Sounded of shredding realization, Dream hummed sorrowfully. George bit his lip to such a hurt expression.

To the frown, tickled into a smile. Crumpled towards the masked feeling, hurt that was dissolving into a familiar, joking manner. "George hates me.." He pouted, but it was all forgery and not taken seriously. His joking demeanor has returned and George almost slaps himself for even considering to clear up the misunderstanding. That he felt bad for an idiot of faked, facial expressions. Oh how those eyes were so good at what they do. 

George glares.

"I've been induced by a reprobate man." The brunet rolled his digits along plain walls, rooting into thickening windows across. To this, he removed his fingers from the other's palms, perturbed to how cold the air was to his, once-warm, skin. "How pitiful." George adds. His feet turn to direct to the living room, once more. And he grumbled towards the couch, but yanked back from his left limb. Recklessness of Dream's clutch, and his hefty chuckles.

"Laughing is so refreshing, huh George?" Dream cackled, enough for his provoking, reeling George back into messy waltzing. 

"Choke, why don't you." 

Dream smiled. "This kinda reminds me of this one time.." He sighs, in love of looking past George, as if he was sorting out the memories of his brain. And the brunet could only attempt to hold back his urge to slap such a revolting look on his face. "I remember when I travelled to the sea with Sapnap. And all the way there, we were just laughing all the while. I've felt so happy."

George coiled to reminences, prying for his own face to be structured to look like he was interested. But he couldn't muster up anything, but irritation.

"Arguing with you is like looking out to the sea." Dream inputs, humorously. "It's refreshing."

Oh, such beautiful, alluring bullshit.

Alas, George is found lost. Lost to how he's more so interested in the 'sea' part. Crashing waters and how cold breeze would tickle of pinched skin. Following to where George remembers his home, to London winds and family he's abandoned. Whereas, George could ponder where he'd go to the beaches with his friends. Classmates that would spring around with pebbles and rocks, where George would curse whenever any would be shot to his ankle. And if any teenager had been lucky for no wilting weather, the summer tasted disgusting salt via splashed intentions. Happy, everything joyous. He'd want to remember it all. He's almost submerged to memories.. But he yanks himself from harm. 

"Your speak of the sea makes me miserable." George spat. "I don't feel like being envious."

Dream nodded, but misreads George. A flaw in such a perfectionist of a character. "I am open to take you? Would you like that?"

George hung his head for a moment, himself being tipped by the blond. His hand slipped to his back, propped him for support. Everything had been rotating upside down, but George responds, "Oh no, no.. Don't be silly. Don't be an idiot." Softly inquiring, he stripped his sneering factors. 

"I'm not being an idiot. I'm being considerate. I wouldn't want you to feel envious." 

Envy, envy, envy. Could he question it any longer? Little possessing the character, it's everything that made George pry away at. Wanting to all, hung from his bones at an emotion so foreign to him. Be it what you may, he grew fond. But Dream was the very object of his envy. 

"Okay, okay, whatever I said, I don't wish to travel," George shook away to the offer.

And he returns to his envy. To his appearance and his skill, where he grudges to lost hope. Desire that never seemed to blossom of truthfulness. 

And their bodies stood still. Letting the eyelashes of the planet's green grass to tear their frames apart. For figures to seperate, only to be connection by useless pinkies. Numbed from regarding jests. Nothing grudged of the improvement.

But George gently comments, with a frown, "Traveling is pointless. As of I."

And Dream croons, lowly whilst his pinky latched tighter to George's own. Where George stares to the radiating comfort. To a tall man that had wanted nothing more but George from the start, pinpointing for his position as a member. The vinyl continues, as George almost forgot about that silly little thing, it nearly disappeared from the world. But George swallowed meek saliva, brown strands shallowing unkempt from combed hair. Draped into his forehead, directing along the locked finger.

"You kid yourself," Dream returned, his tone as serious as George would understand. From that, he refuses to budge his own eyes to him. Such an overwhelming desire for him to collapse to cushions, specifically slumber under the piano notes. 

But he mumbles, despite his lids are beyond the fate of becoming heavy and arduous to struggle open. "Why is that?.." Breathless, he only let's his thoughts wonder along for themselves. 

His skin feels warmer. Seeped of an angel's embrace that was his blue sweater and leather jacket. His limbs feel looser than he had expected them to be. Indulged nothing more than fatigued.

It's Dream's whisper. His returning words, and it reminds him more of his life back at home. That grey bedroom that he had once ruled, so bland and lifeless to agree, either white or the shades that had complimented it. And he remembers the shore, again. Water that he's flown within. The blond's voice is soft, just like how he remembers it.

"I believe you to be more than your futile words.."

The vinyl slurs though an ending. Closing in on those final notes that George remembers distinctively. They're clear and the brunet's voice appeared softly in his throat to sprout the keys. Both Dream and George, cowered to ending notes, the humming is colliding with one another. Harmonies that were grown unintentionally, but concluding of graceful adroitness. 

George's view continued to click over hugging pinkies. 

But they follow along the hand, an arm that's leading to blond hair. The keen greenness that shrewd every annoyance and arguing material. But now, they are true. They are delicate. And strong in their will. Something George could've never shriveled up to. 

But now.. George wasn't so sure of the statement now. 

With a smile slowly imprinting his lips, they stretch tiredly. Tucked into earnest appeal, and the pinkies are pushed aside. Approached not of collecting the rest this fingers to fit ahold of Dream's hand, where they would've tightened to the palm. Embracing the warmth that they gratified for. But, George pulls his hand away. Hesitation buried, along with his findings of an urge. Their figures stand so close together, but never could a touch feel so far away.

And George continued to smile. Exhaustion that has reached its peak. All for spoken utterance of Dream's, George replies.

"What a lovely yet ridiculous sentiment."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive already planned out the next chapters so they'll be able to come out soon! can't wait for u all to read!!!! <3


	6. a gut that squirms.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more shows. more confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey lol sorry for the late fucking chapter but hello new readers!!!!! I started to get notifs of new people reading the story!!! so so happy and grateful and i appreciate every bit of support and kudos i am given :D muah !!!!

Perched softly to cushions, rubbed into the warmth of quickly written blankets of their trip, the bus only chuckled amongst rough roads. Whereas, it coughed up the delicacy of awakenings. A body of a brunet, who churns and whines through the delicious light that paved it's way into the bought windows. On a chilly morning, with stumbling grumbles of abrupt open eyes. Easing themselves to expose the irises tainted of brown, perfectly coated to cover from curtains of hair. George's fluttering only commenced for a moment or so, aligning himself with the morning drawn. 

He is awake. Free. 

But.. From himself being awoken, tickled away to the buissness of their vehicle that rocked along bumpy mishaps. George's hand has raced to the skin of his stomach, kindly obliging himself to pour upon his feet. The blankets cascade to the ground, creating a stream of warmth that Patches took an interest towards. And she raced, pounced to vulnerable fabric, as George struggles himself to weighted socks. Where he stands, wobbling desperately for a bag, an opening, a goddamn trash can for God's sake. His other hand, which was once in the wishing well of softly lent blankets, now slaps harshly to untouched lips.

They squish along his skin, his face designed of finger engravements as George studies the, rather, claustrophobic interiors of the vehicle. He vanishes from the built-in couch, passing by a blond nearby on the other comfort clouds and a black-haired who caressed the carpeted floor from prior plastered state.

Flown to the trashcan already in shambles of beer cans and poorly crumpled chip bags, George only wrecked his elbow to tip it over. Scrambling out the containments from the can, already suffocating himself of his grumbling throat. He could taste all that he's weakened to, his organs that were so mistreated and abused from a reckless night. 

Soon enough, for the thankfulness of clouds above and his unsustainable stomach, he arched himself into the trashcan. Via such mediocre sickness prone of their vehicle traveling, George found himself cowered in the corner. Hurling all of last night's dinner into an odoring garbage.

His squinted eyes dare to glare. Dawned to trembling limbs, and he glares deeply.

And.. He'd want to remember all that has happened before this little incident, and how he has left himself to be driven to foolishness. Drawing himself past the forsaken questions he'd drink within. Why was he presented in the presence of a tour bus, titled and bought of privacy of their traveling band? Never has he had the slightest idea that he'd be clothed only of a wrinkled tank top and boxers. How embarrassing, but more-or-so, how confusing.

A step back, is what's needed. For our layering context of George's scene, he slithered fingers into his hair. Finally concluded of vomiting disposal, his body limped to bump his spine to journeying walls. Still, the vehicle bubbled through pebbles and rocks, shining through a physical rumble of the bus. Which reminds the brunet of their preforming grounds, of brick walls that were violated from guitar and drums. Yet, grazed with a gentle touch of low singing. And George remembers from before his arrival of his stay, and is much thankful that he's recovering himself.

He sits there, reminding himself.. Urging for the slippery palm of sleep. Before his presence in this colliding bus, he wishes to remember the days before this.

Taken back to memories not so blurry through the glass yet, and not scheduled for dusting. George remembers his night with Dream, driven to their undesignated desire, to the blond's home. He still doesn't understand why the sentimental value of an unprofitable conversation was peddled of their quiet dancing. To the vinyl, and to dreadful demise of George's coldness. The brunet only recalls his enforcement on calling a cab. And through attempts of demure persuasions that were droused of George's disagreements. Beyond shaking heads and pursed lips, an apartment that had echoed through every mumble. And although Dream wasn't hurt by either decisions for George to leave for home and not a goodbye even gifted, he grew condolences from the understanding.

Not a waving hand, not even a nod. George traces back to himself ushering for a flown elevator with the annoyance of another following fellow. No goodbye or organized smile, their lasting imprint of sunken conversation was enough. And although Dream had wished well for his remaining night, George just remembers closing the cab door before the other was even able to finish his words.

And George sat in that cab, for a time being.. With only a stranger in the front seat and crooked moribunds of planets set to guard dainty, darkened blue. The night awaited him, and his ached skin. George remembered how his chest only bruised of something so unclear to him, something strong enough that enforced his own hand to be held and clutched to the clothing atop, where a heart so hurt haunts from his own actions.

_I regret my stay to be short.._

And the large apartment reminences weakly of George's untimely appearance. Yet, drew puzzlement into that brain of his. And the idiosyncratic itch that laid beneath his throat only indicated meaning in a specific word of his quote. Inside the cab, resting uneasily of his car ride, he grips skin and only hopes more for bones.

_I regret my stay to be short.._

And it was short. 

And George did regret it.

Despite his words, _Always.._ Despite his words, he regrets.

That specific part of his realization of emotion was confusing, thus he hated it and chose ignorance as being blissful. He didn't understand why he'd wish himself to refuse any more of his own destination home to the driver, or why he found it more comfortable to be listening to that piano piece in Dream's apartment than his own bathtub.

Alas, he carried himself along. Through sleepless night and blistering, raising sun. Whereas, his legs are to travel more than his kitchen floors and tiles that were in desperate need of cleaning. Across paths with his washed dishes, but had yet to be put away. Perhaps they'd collect dust, considering how long they slept on crinkly wash cloths. George indulged himself into the vast closet, alive with clothes he contained himself in for the next show. 

And it's kinda surprising.. To George, at least. 

And maybe.. It made him think. Fowarded from that night in his apartment, onwards to another wind. On one night, where the crickets settled themselves for tapering slumber, and all there was found in his comfort was a body laid on a mattress with a dancing vinyl. Caved into his fatigued frame, he smothered himself to a stench of cigarette smoke, yet again. To strangle sweetly his skin and collarbone of Dream's jacket, playing with stretched hems, loathing himself for a painted smile that crept unknowingly to his cheeks.

And there, he thinks. Oh, he thinks and thinks and thinks, until his thoughts are suffocating with one another. Like grown out fire, like hiccuping shivers, and like the ache of his worn out fingers and his limbs of legs that have grown numb from their standing physique upon wooden platforms. Now, meant for blurry dreams of his imagination, George could only do the opposite as his eyes shot to his molded ceiling.

His skin is stroked delicately from the fields of dying stars, and he only hugs himself in tighter. Living, breathing to drink of a homely scent. 

Humiliation clouds his mind, but it's not enough for it to be slit to his paleness.

But soon, the knocks upon the door indicates another journey of scheduling. That night, he thought of his place behind the back seat. Tossed and shoveled into indented warmth, a seatbelt that bruised from mistreatment. Wrinkled into a coiled shape, ruined of the perfect frame. George reminences of kicking the back of the driver's seat, yelping out his demands to Sapnap. Exclamations of his dried out pleas for his common sense to be regained, muffled over screeched tires and the shriveled uselessness in his wasted breath. Till this day, a mixture of red and blue never seemed to emerge an appearance in a car window, and neither of their fingers were tainted with a speeding ticket. And George whispered a chuckle, when he clutches the trash can. A giggle for reality. Just for a moment.. Until he dips himself back to the memories, brings himself back to the past days.

The brunet likes to remember the nervous feeling that would prod his gut of. In the darkness of awaiting curtains, lingering his frail digits along strings that he's accustomed to. A recycle of pondering delights, now fond of like pasty winds that escaped into the ajar alignment of an open window. George's worries of a stage presence have become swallowed and developed into fuel for his playing.

"Sapnap, did you just fucking fart," And their transportation would be conducted in their established car. The pros and cons had varied, but Sapnap's name was carved in bolted red to the title of the 'cons' list. As the man himself would stir up more trouble than the gas that bubbled in his stomach. 

And remembering, George shall, as he knows of how they used to get around town with that tiny car. From pub to bar, a strung out stage that welcomed the three dear. Sometimes, George would blink at how huge some of the buildings were to be. Where they weren't shrubbery, and they actually tasted like something other than messy quickies and swallowed cigarettes. Dream always encouraged George for his trust, and that'll always push him for their settlement in the backstage of prior performances.

Show to show, George allowed his body to sink in crowd's combining screams. Not to matter if they were directed for him or not, he encouraged for it, but he only connects himself to his instrument. He does like to take his noting along every location they'd appear to. When he'd step out to the sidewalks of their designated stop, George counts the black blotches of neglected gum. When he follows Sapnap and Dream into the corridors of a backstage, he tried to match around the many wires. Enough to kill a man, they wore the ground and had no intentions of disappearance. They prey upon the rubble and garbage cast aside, a landmine for tripping staff's ankles and crumbling the time. 

And George's mind cleared the dizzy fuzziness, carving the pavement of something George would always find his eyes to wonder to. Drifting away, blown from his black glasses, drawn and delivering unintentionally towards Dream. Always, through the very shows he took participation in, a raspy tone would carry him away from instrumental occupation. A distraction, rather than coordination on his strings, it's all but to force his irises to the undesired location. That stupid mask, but swathes over a tall and lanky figure that hopped around the stage. Bounding from tattering curtains whilst his carelessness to inharmonic cavort was harsh and reckless. 

George admires it.

How such a low voice conveys himself with parallel intimidation, it possesses an excited audience. 

..And a guitarist.

Along the way, they got Bad. Hell, the three even got a manager. He worked along the other studios that have been contained in their building, specializing along the heavy metal bands that George would sometimes hear screaming from down the hall. A man, brown-haired and fumbled with interest, had overheard the three one day whilst passing by. Although, he grimanced through yelping curses, not quite fond of such. But if it wasn't for Bad, the band probably would've never heard their own song on the radio that morning.

How could such a boy ever lead George up the alley of preforming. He still wondered the possible answers, and craved all to know why he's cooped within a bus. Traveling along roads and nearing through crowded concrete. And that.. Takes him to only three weeks ago, after the abundance of concluded shows. After the night of vehemently, breathy rasps and the dwellings of colored lights on the stage, George is sat in the parking lot once more. He's found underneath unlocked mysteries and the studying winds above, claiming his acceptance to the unmoving car seat. Gently depositing himself to the open car door, when his legs hung out the opening and allowing whispers and hums to wrap his air of smoke.

"Give me a lighter, Sapnap.." 

Inquiring his delicate question, the brunet's head leans to his seat's headrest, resuming the collection of his dainty sweat from a rag. And again, like similar nights prior of when they finish their shows, he influenced his clasp to the leather jacket. Only cleaning it more of a scent, the fragrance of benevolence and his confusing demise. 

It was colder around this time of darkness. The tiny parking lot that lays next to their rented recording studio just waits. They three arrived here shortly from sweat and rumbling walls, with George's mumbled state. Wishing that Dream didn't want to record this late of night.. and after a show, to add.

Which might explain the irksome look. ..Or maybe that might be from the girls..

He only wishes that his eyes could tear away from surrounding girls' giggles. Afar from their car, and where George dangleshis neck away from. Inclining skirts that dangles its esoteric proclivity, and bulky shoes that captivates walls to circulate a blond. Either the specialization of long hair or the dote of shortened tainted colors spread of their poked heads. 

It tastes bitter on his tongue. Just to be overhearing all the wandering voices that have blossomed their interest, people that were once blended in the mush of the crowd. Now established around a masked man, praises of his performance are sent through smiles. And the bitterness only savored stronger in his mouth.

Nor did he like it, but his maturity decides upon ignorance.

George turns to the other man, standing out in cold mumbles. Settled next of the side from the opening of George's door, his body rests and leans uncomfortably to timid metal of the car. And already containing himself in his exhaustion, the lit stick hung cautiously from chapped lips, coughing out studs of speckled fire that died from the fall. Ash that only ate away from the stem, the ending of secondhand clouds. "Get your own." Sapnap chuckled snarkily as his fingers danced to clutch it's pause.

George twitched his sneer upwards towards the drivel. And soon, he impatiently yanked his hand out, a palm that splayed to air and air only. Skin that was flung to the thickening smokes, mumbling his irritation. The cigarette that was plopped onto his lips only grows colder and reeks of its negligence. 

"Quit being an asshole, dude, just give me your fucking lighter." He's only hasty amongst his statement, his stoicism gone dry. 

His fingers await a touch of the familiarity cold, something to cure the remedies of the addicting grudge. His only view is to the small scrummage that surrounds Dream, sprouting all their admiration and the pleas for an autograph. He peeled some skin of his bottom lip, keeping himself company of a cast away cigarette that has been yet to be lit. He's unknown to his expression, but the glare doesn't go unnoticed by Sapnap. Who paused blankly to George's open hand.

Then, he shyly smirked, his slow process of a guess is wiring a taunt. "What's with the face?" He hummed softly, as if the worry was in any way to dissolve his mockery. "He's just talking to our fans."

George glances around his environment for the moments of his additional comment, his lids contracting themselves of his squandering chagrin. But they only lift with disagreement, to peek his head out so he was able to spot the other's ridiculing nature. "I just asked you for a lighter, so give me one."

"You give a man a cigarette and suddenly he thinks he's tough shit," Sapnap only prods himself to lower his neck, grazed over the brunet's. Enjoying all of the annoyance dug into those eyes. But the difference is within the seriousness of both's tones. One is playful and only amounts oneself to the kicks of laughs, another is plastered with a wilting irritation towards immaturity. Sapnap only aligned his face with burrowed eyebrows. "I see jealousy, George." He remarked smugly, soon to sweep a gust of cigarette smoke from his lips. Grey puffs that displayed to a scrunching nose and winks of disgust.

"Sapnap, dude—" George croaked from his coughs, linear digits that tighten together to wave away the woven swarms. 

Sapnap watched his displeasure from a childish act, but only wishes for George to take hold of the irony. Presented before him, is something he never thought he'd be able to witness to such a self-reserved guy. Emotion, anything less than blank, something that sparks the intriguing need. "George, dude—" The mockery only strengthens the daggers. But it sends the message, through calm irises that stunk with memorization. His lips lightly tugged, causing George to slowly edge himself from the pending pique. But the raven tilts his head, white cloth via bandana traveling down the direction it fell. Folding twice, just above George's view of the uniquely gathered ones. All before Sapnap's own face paints into his way. "He did really fucking good tonight, though. Can't blame him for getting the recognition.." He comments.

George bits his bottom lip.

Carefully, terribly shakily, his lids follow towards his lap. Traveling achey digits towards the blue of his sweater. Looping fingernails past gentle tatters. 

"Yeah, he did." George admits within exhale. Fond of how Dream hummed all delicious notes so gruffly and rather seductively. He'd flow along the risen flow, and George could notice how the people bumped at each other for the slightest grasp of him. Allowing for more of their songs to be played, permission was yeiled from tumbling drums and George's soft playing.

"I think they really liked the new song you wrote." Sapnap nods, digging his lips to the his index and middle fingers. In pursuit, he releases the smoke towards the side and away from George's vacancy. "Never knew that their heels would fall from a little boy's writing." Another smirk of childness.

George swipes his neck against the head rest, yet again, plopping it across and to the back of the passenger's seat. " 'little boy', okay Sapnap, as if you're not like the same height as me," He remarked. 

But.. It's a pretty feeling in his chest.

It only had started out with small suggestions. For written bridges and instrumental conductivity, George would note miniscule additions. Proposals of an alternating verse upon a line, or how long Dream shall hold a specific harmonization for. Simple enough, but hard to process for himself, but he's alright written half of the songs they have been preforming. Mainly a surprise for comprehending, but the real talent was growling in a blond. And especially Sapnap, never had he underestimated with the twiddling drumsticks of his. The capabilities astound the brunet, a gaze never to be torn. 

But his mind shifts as his attention isn't paid, soon, he doesn't realize a distance from girls' whispers and laughs, dispersed that of a surrounding blond. He's eyes drape to the car's carpet. But, caught by a voice, chuckled and sweet,

"What're you guys arguing about now." He sighed, already tired. Cancer stick already sunk to fingers, practically taunting him. 

George perked up. That cigarette of his own continues to sit patiently on his lips, appointed lately of a stinging fire. Yet, the brunet turns to Sapnap. And of their prior conversation.. That of George's unclear expressions. Of his glares, covered with his scarring scoffs, Sapnap had the very power of exposure. Even he knew that, as he peers down to the other still cooped inside the car seat. And knowing him, he'd expect all fury and planets to collide once his mouth opens. But, instead, he shrugged. "George-y worg-y needs a lighter." Sapnap answers. Which is relief. And George hums in satisfaction.

With that, he slowly heaves his body from his seat, spiraled into the crawling gusts of wind and away from the warmth of the car. Tad ruined from smoke, but George discards that as he closed the door. The three finally walking to the entrance of their recording building. And still, the residence of a burning tip from white doesn't meet his tongue. 

Dream nodded, lightly tipping his fingertips to rip away the smiley-faced mask. Lowering it to hang carelessly, and state towards the two as they paced themselves through the parking lot. George grunted, shallow admiration to two men who trail behind their clouds. "You didn't have to wait in the cold, you guys could've went inside." Dream states.

Sapnap shrugged, and passed glances with the brunet. "I mean.. We would've," He hums leisurely. Tugging the handle of the glass door, rearing it along the hinges to open. "But George insisted to wait for you by the car. So I just waited with him." 

George shook his head, cautious with his placement of the stick on his teeth when he spoke. "Can I just get a lighter, already?" Hastily spat of the request, he only meets the closing door. Sapnap hadn't widened it enough for the three, rudely indisposed with his convenience. And both blond and brunet were ceased of their passing, continued to be left of the freezing air. 

They pause, but neither reach for the door. George's annoyance has reached the peak, but like himself, it doesn't show indication. Only through him stuffing his pockets of blue hands, turning to Dream. Who, too, is deadpan. But preaches a warm smile once he realized who was glaring to him. 

"Hello there," He grinned. 

George only disregards that, blankly humming, "Lend me a lighter, please." He inquired.

But Dream just stares dumbly, almost enough to creep George out. If anything, he returns a gaze, but it pierces to the buffering puffs of clouds that appear from the taller's mouth. "I wanna ask you a question."

The blond spoke, with lifeless breathe and a raising chin, the shaggy yellow that bounched their blockage around his neck heaps. But he leaned to the building's outside wall, all yet to yield an unopened door. They didn't occupy it at the moment, only left smothered from tender air. 

"Dream wants to ask me a question, look at that," George responded, sarcastic in his tone. 

The blond nodded, slowly leaning his neck down a tad. "How would you feel about a tour?" He asks, through hinted hesitation. And his eyes almost gleam from the insider window. A reflection, imagery that George fed himself within.

And yet, he grows limp. Words that prospect messily and scratched off his tongue. Kindly dragging his palm to an awkward angle, cramping along his collarbone. "Tour?"

"A tour, yeah." Dream repeats. But his lids lower. Like anticipating curtains from rowdy aftermath, like his curtains he'd drape down to his chipped window sill, and his eyelashes cater the sweetness oozing from his voice. "Bad said that he would schedule us one.. I think that we'd be ready." He hummed. But George notices how his face creeps closer to his own.

He acknowledged it. And yet, didn't move. He stood put and still. The occupation of his lips simply aligned with Dream's own cigarette. Applying some so.. Odd in his eyes. That drag along the influence to the brunet, breathless under light freckles.

"I think you'd look amazing on the big stage, George." Dream comments, the compliment only drew smoke to George's face. And Dream's close. The brunet's nose almost to touch his cheek, he fixated his body to tense up against the scent of the other. Awkwardly indulged of it, he averted his eyes. Tasting the smoke in his teeth, Dream lit his cigarette from his own. Tips for the spark of touch, something to produce smoke from George's own lips. Finally, of relief withstand, George allows the strange demonstration perceive. Pulling himself away once he got what he needed, he loathed to how their faces were so close.

"I would..?" George sparked an eyebrow, drawn with blowing a gust of ash. 

Dream licked his lips. "You do."

"Do you always have to do that." George sighed, vexation to return to a tone. "Why not just give me a lighter. 'S less awkward that way," He spoke as he sipped through smolder.

But Dream croons his neck, a crook that plays his leaching appreciation. "Well then," He spoke. "If I just give you a lighter, it'll be boring that way." He inputs. While George winced a taboo expression. But Dream stays where he's left his head at, continued to be arranged in front of the brunet. He's smiling softly, but it indicates something more than kindness. Luring more temptation. "You do this face, like.. a specific face, when I do it. I think it looks funny."

"Wow, I'm insulted." George rolls his eyes. And the two chuckle through a joke. But George could still taste breathe not of his. But he doesn't desire to look to the other, discarding the thought. "But.." He began. "I wouldn't mind a tour, Dream." An answer, granted to him. 

And once more, timing their quietness. The blond presses his hair closer within the wall, as if it was some kind of pondering pillow. But George has less to say, considering the meek tension the two of them held. With how close they were with each other, an intimacy that was unclear and would probably cause George to grieve regretful the next morning. He didn't like it, obliged to grovel from how much he desires of it. Maybe that's why he didn't like it.

But when George returns to stare, Dream is much closer. Uncomfortably closer, carefully perched with breezes and moon. George gawks unknowingly, lost to their situation. Blinked blankly, as of the other did. But he feels the exhale of one's nose upon his lips. Shivering the skin, and bestowed his direction of this. And George couldn't move. 

And again. Tingling his fingertips, but it's lifeless to the sentiment, dry and meaningless. The two so paired together closely, and yet, can't feeling anything. His eyes, Dream's eyes, green and valuable, so close in his space. The air of space that George was well-known to be sold of, allows it to be violated. True for him, he winces to yellow bundles that crouch against his forehead. From freckles he could practically count, and the eyelashes he would name off of.. He almost wonders.. With weightless though of indication.

_Does he admire me as much as I do to him..?_

"Hey, Dream, George, are you guys out here—.." 

To a voice, unexpected and opening the entrance. A head is poked out, along with a foot that settles to concrete. It pauses the two, specifically the other who flinches with the abrupt question. George remains with the surprised wince, looking back to find Bad. He halts in the doorway, to the two. And to this, he could feel the cigarette fall from his cold, untouched lips.

"Oh." Bad uttered. Briefly clearing a guilty throat. "Uh." And he avoids their gaze, with awkwardness. "Am I int—"

"No, you're not interrupting anything." Hasty of his tone, he ripped away from the closeness, and whipped towards the door. With shambles of realization, he couldn't understand why he didn't move away from the other. Not an attempt, no nothing, he just stood their like an idiot. And he feels.. And it tastes like nothing more than humiliation. Embarrassment that is engraved to cheekbones. But he stops his feet from continuing into the building, the buildup of nerves that causes him to turn his head to Dream. Who looks lost in the daze, similarity of his sheepish stare.

"Dream, don't.." It begins almost angrily, fury that embarks the journey to his gullet. And yet, dissolving softly and defeated. His exhales grow with trembles. Where he trailed off. 

Soon, gifting an uneasy scowl.

"Don't do that." 

A blank statement. To something that he almost pressed up to. Something that his  _lips_ almost pressed up to. Shame has crept onto his neck and trickled along the bone of spines. The heaviness of his breathe followed him into the building, but they have went on with the day.

George remembers that day before their trip, which might explain to his position amongst the floor. Crumbled in their tour bus, traveling since the brink of a clutching moon. But light finds its way through small windows, clasping and claiming the ashtray leveled onto a table. It passed through an abandoned glass of water that was traced the red discoloration of koolaid. The table knocks a tad from bumpiness, rolling the tremble through the whole vehicle. Careful for the sampling gleam to cross apart from crushed and grinded powdery white. And George scorns. A small noise emits from the prior crumple of rolled up dollar bills. Reminences of Sapnap's heedless offer of the drugs. And soon, the sun finds a remark along George's unkempt hair, dousing from the strained night. It follows to his scrunching eyelids, underneath of smudged eyeshadow, George slowly places the trash can back to its original spot. Casting away his stench of car sickness. 

He's quiet, respectfully trawling his adjusting vision through the interior holding of their stay. Hard to believe that the three had enough space in the tiny room to practice a tad of their songs along the road. But George presses himself to the wall, his knees urging themselves to pull into his chest. To that thin tanktop, where the wrinkles form through his exhaustion. Yet, his environment slows, the walls his skin kissed up against don't shake as harshly as they have before. The vehicle is nearing its stop, nearing the vast building.

And George hums lowly.  Justifying his light utter.

A little reminder for the onwards of the band's first tour show.

A breathe of free and tranquil air.

His glance to a slumbering blond, adding his flattering tension.

"He tried to kiss me.."

Empty, empty, empty. 

Echoes of the mind, scamering stage pieces surrounding them of a rising ceiling. He could reach his hand and still feel, and still taste, the sensationalism of absolutely fucking nothing. It's rather impressive, amazing, spread across the openings of such a spotless house. Entering within a space George would never have even paid to go into, and to think that he was going to be the thing being paid for. Nothing more than those bars and taverns the band was mostly swarmed along in. But never, had the openings been this huge and this.. Overwhelming.

Despite it being only soundcheck, and those who bought into the show wait outside in disorganized lines, so George had no need to feel so nervous. He didn't have the need to become as trembly as his baggy jeaned legs, or the rumble of the bottom of a gut. His eyebrows express the emotion, not referring for the calm stoicism he'd usually possess. Still, it's hard to believe he's involved in something that sold out a whole house. Only then, his skull is mindful of previous shows, banging the blood that flew in and out of his collective nerves. A migraine that was prioritized and shamefully gained from last night's fun and this morning's 'I don't need nothing before the show' statement to a black-haired suckup.

"Hey, you doing alright?" 

Overheard from gentle footsteps, they pledge behind him slowly. Surprised enough that the brunet was able to hear the sound from all the staff noises. The tumbling rolling of packages, tossled through the preparation of the show. Displaying all the necessities of connections. All from the start, when they first arrived, but George was subjected to his lonesomeness whilst glaring afar to the vacant floors.

But, to the voice, George's chest arises. An unsettled shoulder lifts above, but they do not lower after, but he does glance to the other. His fingers locating temporarily to his guitar strings, adapting himself as he may. "Ah.." George produces uncertainly, until glowering down to his activity. "Mmm, yeah yeah. I'm good," He assures Dream. But maybe it was inferred towards himself. That, he wouldn't to know.

"Oh good," Dream is nodding, and his voice is sure of George's affirmation. But his eyes gag from the concern, it rocks along his earpiece that is showered from blond hair. But those eyes, delicate and powerful, they only ease themselves on the comfort of George collarbones. Simply doused of the signature blue sweater and black glasses, broadly quoted from the papers, at least. "Just wasn't sure, y'know." Dream adds in, but George could feel his migraine bundle with frustration. But he hears the smile from his sentences, which is enough for the alternative medicine. And George, himself, tugged upon his lips. "It's kinda weird, huh?" Dream asks.

George processed the question, thoughts soon to blur so that they would finalise his reply. Fluttering lids announce a swaying direction, tore away from clean walls to appear to another. "Be specific, Dream. I think a lot of things are weird at the moment."

_Like that time you tried to kiss me._

It wasn't meant to strike himself, the foggy imagery and how close Dream was at the time. Neither fear or protest was internally instructed at that night, but it still annoys George that he didn't do anything but allow frozen limbs. And he remembers how clear his freckles were.

Hates how he desires to see them, again.. So closely.. So intimately.

But George swallows down the memory, and perks to Dream's inquiry.

"Can't believe our songs made it to the radio, George.." Dream chuckled. Which sparks the brunet to do the same, breathlessly calling those dainty laughs of satisfactions. How all three of them jumped from car window to a carpeting ceiling when they first heard themselves. "I heard we sold the whole house." He remarked. And George blinks of disbelief. "The whole  fucking house, George."

"Holy shit," George shakes his head to it, as the two share their own fulfillments.

Dream stretches his arms about, for palms that tangle into his own hair. Itch along to the ringing slaps of paid currency and the labor they driven themselves from. Complicated when first formed, and yet.. They find themselves to a sold-out stadium. "And to think that you would've been just a staff at a rubbish club." The blond hums, as he slowly paces himself around George. Forwarded to the other side of him, as he grins stupidly.

George sneers to him, even if the statement was the offensive truth, he only lands his forehead aimed to his cold palm. His sleeves crumbling from folds and trailing down like water to fall. Chuckling away the thankfulness. "And to think that you offered me to the band.."

"A band that you quit from for.. For like a month, or so." Dream prodded his index finger up to the snarky addition. 

George throws his rolled eyes, tilting his head backwards so he'd peer towards the blond. His gratitude residing into a throat of longing. "But, aren't you glad I'm back?"

The other averted his contact, blubbering his produced chuckles. "What a stupid question, George." He offers. "If not for you, half the songs wouldn't be as good. I really like how you sing backup, at times. 'S nice to hear your voice."

George just plucks the divulgence attentively, and hums to the sentiment. As he may, he only lowers his chin. Down to his guitar, down to an instrument he once threw away from failure, and burned his brain and fingertips of reminences and pointless prowess. He's smiling, and directed for the surreal sensation that surrenders to his knees. George has no other but two idiots to thank for such.

"Wow." Dream hums into air, which causes George to rise up of his face. He turned to the one at his side originally, but he was already too occupied with facing the bare environment that was amongst the lower floor from their own. George soon twists his head to the room. But his merciful smirk only infers for joking manners, and he soon speaks.

And the brunet utters his response, dribbled with his mockery, "Are you saying that about me, or the empty house?" He said, as they continue to gaze out in the open. 

But Dream returns the energy thrown at him, with stronger eyes and gifting observations. "Mn, maybe both, who knows."

"Cheeky."

But Dream travels his black boots over a journey of wooden planks, and they crinkle over every step. And stooped before him, Dream bumped his shoulder to George's. "You never want to go talk to them." He says. "I know you to be quite the Introvert, but the crowd enjoys you quite a lot. It was when you joined, we started getting the abundance of calls about more performances around town." Dream fogs the air with the statements, soon as he sucks in his bottom lip. "I take note of how you usually like to sway gently when you play, with closed eyes. Like so effortlessly, you play and it's all effortlessly for the beauty."

George rolled his eyes. Although, hushing away the redness so unforgivable. "Oh really?"

"Yeah, George." Dream affirms. And his voice is more delicate with him, oozing a transition of natural facileness. "They just love your presence." He hummed. "They love pretty boys who can play guitar."

It's the observation, and it is clear for the truth. Sapnap was to know this, Bad knows this quite well, undeniably speakable for the papers and media to nab ahold of. Spoken from bruised lips and to bitten lipstick, words are spread and priced inexpensively. George, too, would admire himself of gentle playing, even if the majority of their songs were banging of screeches and angry punches to drums. Yet, he urges the jests.

"I feel like I'm profit in denial." Untruthful to George's voice, and probably straightforward to the standard of being in the band. He croons the chuckle to his feet.

But Dream shakes his head. Sharing for a moment as he blinks. "You're not any of the sort."

George rolled his eyes, yet again. Sliding his neck for a leaning notion, ruffled brown that disarranges from the scalp. " 'They just love'.. 'They love'.." He echoed, quoting the extractions from Dream's own words. 

And yet, it doesn't phase him. Albeit joking or not, the two know of it to be untrue. It had been best to pass it off as a simple joke, for a petty laugh or the jibe of one's lips. But, Dream only stares longer than George would've intended him to, expressionless to the matter.

But his body coordinates from the edge of the stage, rounding with the squeak of boots. Eyes that have furthered a vision, his eyelashes that falter lowly. Alluring against George, who watches Dream turn to return towards upper stage.

And his lips dance, creating his field of daze. "Just replace the 'they' with 'I', hm?" He proposed.

Despite it all, it rummages against his chest. The bones that were once barricaded for the protection via fear, despite it all, despite it all. It's refusal for the blossoming sensation that pangs ruthlessly to bubbling blood that swallows his heart and organs. They squirm and itch, only wishing more that fingers were able to smash within and shrivel the tenderness. Where it'll paint wrinkles of the fingers and slither and wiggle with reticence underneath nails, permanently tainting the bitten frailness. Among their various taciturn, all of which that contains puzzlement and the urge to bang his head against the wall.. Never had the urge been this strong. Humiliation brushes against his neck, like spluttering wind from above. And it's tingling his collarbone, and the uncouth bitterness swept into his cheeks. And all it did was dig the burning deeper and deeper.

Those boots dig into wood that pace far and well away from George, overtime to pick a rhythm that sings and echos into the brain. Where neither his embarrassment or a fluster of running thoughts would blur the stepping reverb of Dream's travel. He walks away, and there's nothing but air and timid desire dripping in their disconnection. It makes George's mouth either water, run dry, or have a vomiting taste to linger on his tongue. 

_Who the fuck does he think he is.._

"—shit, George, I knew that there was gonna be a big fucking crowd but— like, _that_?? I didn't expect that—!" 

It's excitement, in the mixture of adrenaline and the purposing rush of an aftermath. Where eardrums are still shaky and weak whilst the eyesight struggles meekly for adjustment to alterations of environment and the open air of the night. Sapnap awfully reeks of it (and sweat but don't they all) while the two are allowing themselves from a heavy door. Heading through a backstage, George breathes heavily through the other's thrilling blabber.

"Yeah, me too, sure," The brunet exhales, his breathing pattern wrecked from such a strung out performance. He could almost feel another migraine forming from how much he saw the one's within the crowd throwing and bashing their heads around. All to their playing, all for the band, screams and screeches directed just for the three. It's flattering, really, but George is rather dazed and overwhelmed from the show and from Dream's last words. 

"So fucking crazy, my balls are fucking dripping, dude, like when we were playing, I could see al—," His jests are nothing but disillusioned breathe that George couldn't care for even if he had tried. His blue sweater was sticky to his arms and chest, causing his uncomfortable frame to grow squirmish of the material. 

It's still ringing in those eardrums of his, chomping to his hearing where it's all there is. A second, split by the alley the two reside in for the moment, he doesn't hear Sapnap's collaborations or drifting cars that pass by. Even he could feel himself to wobble a tad, his mind becoming repetitive of tracing back the image of how crooked teeth and flawless teeth crunched to squeal up to them from before. Hands, fingers, clothing accessories that were thrown carelessly into raging lights. Embracing wings that tickle to complexion and braclets that wrap a wrist that carry their ticketing verification. They sprung, but threw towards him and the others. At times, successful of reaching the edge of the stage, but rippled away by security. All for happy smiles, some looked to be fainting.. Kinds like how George was feeling at the moment. 

But in his hands, albeit an earthquake of limbs, is slept with a juice box. Given to him by Bad, before he had scrambled himself to help with Dream, his teeth scratch the straw of it. Sipping away at ecstasy and liquid to heal a wounding exhaustion. He notices how Sapnap stares to him, an expectation of something that George wouldn't know of due to ignoring. Never had he paid attention, but he just knew that his lips were moving. "Oh— uh, yeah, yeah, me too."

"It was fun wasn't it?" Sapnap accepts the answer that was lazily gifted, which allows George to sigh with relief. Continuing to travel themselves through gusts, even if Bad was in desperate attempt for having them wait. Of reality, they swore of pinkies and smiles that have been painted and brushed with innocence. But realistically, they reside their sweaty, crossed fingers behind their backs. Thus, leads the two justifying themselves in trying to look for the bus. "I saw you, George. You were smiling, too, weren't you, I saw it."

George shook his head, even if a grin prods to his cheeks. Grasping ahold of the strength in his muscles, tagging to the hem of his sweater his arms swung from. "I feel all gross," He scoffed, sliding his index amongst his collarbone, collection of moisture. "Like, where all of the—"

Stepping slowly from the exit of the backstage, only wishing to collapse into their begging corridors of their tour bus, both Sapnap and George made their way. Tired, yet fueled. They pursue themselves from bricks.. And yet, didn't make it so far. Neither did George's conversation with the raven fellow, soon trampled from flashes and the embodiment of flickers about. Clicking here, whilst pencils wiggled through the wavering crowd. It abruptly swerves from a corner, crossed and droused the two of swallowing questions. 

George flinched. Sapnap flinches. Only then, their palms recover senses and aim to shield themselves from such rude camera oggles. The brunet is caved closer to Sapnap as they briefly pause their feet from continuation. Met with a fate of, none other than, the craving of gossiping media and reporters. 

Which is.. Surprising.

Kinda scary, yeah, but surprising.

"Shit," Sapnap uttered quickly, the both of his hands flying towards his sight. Blocked from both his drumsticks and the fingers that grasped ahold of them. 

The brunet wines from overwhelming power of shuttering shots, which seem to calm down from the sudden curve. But the questions do not rest nor sleep, rather grow from noticed figures. But George is quiet, even if the majority of the crowd has sprouted his name through demand.

Glanced to Sapnap for a second, his eyes are squinted as of his, and he edged closer to the other. A humiliating but a natural instinct. For the very reason because.. He's never been in such a situation as of this. It was all usually been Dream to be the one swarmed. Dream to have all crowds rushed to him like pigeons for the crumb of dropped bread. As if they were cannibals of some sort, to feast off his words and spit it back up to plaster printed sentences to paper of profit. 

"I—I'm sorry, but Dream is in the back, we—" Sapnap attempts to even speak, but it's ruined from collating voices and resuming camera shutters.

"How do you think the show went, George?"

To a man that doesn't look to much older from his own specifications, George twists himself to a bearded one. Not owned from camera or lenses, but a clenched paper and utensil. To that, he couldn't do anything more than stammer.

A reticent guy like him wouldn't to know what to say to such a straightforward question. He had the answer, of course, but he couldn't contain a sound from his throat.

Again, he glanced to Sapnap. Cameras that minimize, only a few that voice themselves from the back of the pile, not to affect them as much. So the raven glances back. Noticing of George's unknown aspect.

And it looks like.. They weren't looking for Dream.

But intentions were set on the two, _purposefully_.

"Ah, um.." The brunet had begun. Aimed to answer the question that had been directed for him. Would've been rude of him not to, of course.

But for rescue, Sapnap had chimed in perfectly. To wipe away those confused and anticipated expressions, and like a dog to a waving stick, they swerve their eyes to Sapnap as he made his tone. "I think that it went well! We're glad to be preforming!" He grunts, noting of how heads turn down to write his quotes. To their distraction, he slowly leans in to George. A camera flash or two combined to his tongue and eyelash. "Or something like that, I dunno what the fuck they want me to say."

And George could've chuckled to the comment, but he finds another reporter to step closer to him. Tasting fish on the breath, urging himself not to make it look like he was holding his breath. "What are you looking forward to on the tour, George??" His eyes are wide, terrifying to even justify eye contact with, but George cracks a polite smile. Even if it's deathly forced, he breathed out a nervous titter. "How do _you_ think the show went?" He repeats.

He had shrugged, although, setting that to be his response. And he averts his eyes, and they land to ground and lamppost, glances that were meant to be the end of a one-sided conversation. And yet, the wide eyes hadn't tore away from his. As the body language wasn't enough for them, and they expect more.

"Oh," George noticed. "Okay, uh, well," He wanted to start. Yet, led nowhere.

Alas, until, something is pressing onto his shoulder. The other side of him, not the one crushed against Sapnap, and George turns to fingers that abide themselves to his exposed skin. He's almost alarmed, just about to send his remarking glares and refusals for it, but he couldn't turn around. And one of a leather jacket and his lanky figure comes forth from the door behind them. A blond that emerged within the crowd, carefully pressing George back of him. Where he profiled himself like a barricade wall in front of the brunet, as he pushed him behind his back. A smile so sweet on his face, and so casually spot from. 

George blinks to a warm hand, admiring to how quickly he was able to stoop to. And his gut churns from peering behind his sweaty neck, the wide eyes the reporter once blew to him now seperate. And he almost wants to chuckle from a protective glance of Dream's.

"Dream..?" George quietly questions, poking his head from the corner of the shoulder, but the other continued his smile and facade of public living.

"The show went well, we all enjoyed to be playing for our fans." He announces, even if the crowd hustles at the sight and sound of their lead singer. And he could almost spot the security ushering to their aid. But George could do nothing more but clutch ahold of Dream's arm, leather that slipped between his grasp. But, he eyes direct to something more of his efforts. Of his thoughtful gesture. 

He smiles lightly to it. 

"It's been wonderful to have this experience, I'm glad." Dream offers more of his sentences. Overlooking some notepads and assuring the words were inked down for later use. 

_Looks like he's used to it.._ George thinks to himself, watching along the popping heads.

"Look over here please!!" 

From the call that was just like any other in the crowd, this one is shouted right in his ear. He scorned, nearly cursed to the man. And yet, regained himself as he turned to the side. Where a camera is shot right into blinding eyes, where the world becomes nothing but white for the while.

He squints and rubbed harshly at lids, and Dream yanks George closer to him. Whereas, his body is planked in between him and Sapnap. As a sharp glare is wounded to the recorder from Dream, more taken aback that George was. 

"George, what do you have to say to your fans?!"

A voice, but George doesn't even know where it comes from. Or why the question was in desperate need of answer. 

But soon, he feels Dream's hand tangle into his own. Where rings are kissed to his own bundled skin, where they carefully connect along his bruised knuckles and ached thumb. George looks down, to the blond's hand wrapped to his, not even noticing that they begin to walk. Security that had finally reached them, escorts to their closed off section.

"Huh?" George mindlessly mumbles, probably too caught up within the warmth of Dream's palm. Forgetting of the question at stake.

But no need to dig into his mind for recollection, as multiple reporters repeat it for him at no cost. Only to the expense of his answer, they boggle and burn flashes at him. "Your fans, George! What do you have to say to them?!"

"..I have fans?" He doesn't want to sound to surprised for the information, as it has never to cross his mind of it. It's expected, obviously, he's one to be on stage now, but hard to process for himself. His hands finally drug from connected fingers, as the three walk, he turns to Dream who is cautiously looking to him for any aid.

He turns to him confused, blinking for clarification as if there was any to leave. But Dream notices of George's uncertainty, of how his eyes melt through a passing alleyway. Perhaps, mistaking it for fear, but either way, he pulls George closer into him. Concern that rippled to his stoicism smile.

"Come on now, we just finished the show, everyone. I'm sure enough we'll be able to answer questions after—"

But it cuts through the throwing words and trembled notepads, of increasing camera strikes once the three are reaching their destination of their vehicle. 

Caught in daze, George closed to an echo of question. The one about himself being possesstion of fans. Dear ones of boys and girls that he only thought to be bought of by mostly Dream and, at times, Sapnap. And yet, more camera flashes are focused to align with George. 

Dream, Sapnap both announce their either goodbyes and 'thank you's, with Bad that assisted them of entering the bus. George is continued in being dragged from Dream's welcoming hand to the car, but he noticed more and more of the people's shuffling. A growing crowd, being shoved from security and to reach their cameras and irises upwards to even seize a perfect shot of the band.

_Fans.._

George persists mindful for reservations, but he's sat still in the closed door of the entrance. Where, he catches all of the parking white and blabbering mouths that move from his coordination.

_And.._

His fingers don't hold their grip to Dream's. Only the other is presented for their holding hands. But a limp palm isn't one for care, and his fingers dribble from the other's. Unknowingly, falling slowly from rings and braclets. Blue sleeves that fold from their fall of grace.

_And they're mine..? My fans.._

George could grin to it, but it's still a process for him to understand. Yet, there's a smile, there's the history, where sugary bitterness is swept through. 

"I have fans," George's tongue kicked to the inside of his mouth, and he turned to the others. Repeating it as if it was in need of justification, but he conditions the confirmation.

His chortle becomes breathy. " _I_ have fans."

It's disbelief, and everything cherry-picked of it, but still joy to gradually build up into his core.

But there still lingers a blond's hand that was dropped of negligence. It shall twiddle and sprinkle it's joy for one's success, and yet..

Fingers have clenched, along with teeth, with a dry swallow. Left to ponder of one's empty hand. Dream's empty hand.

Empty, empty, empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmmmm writing this while listening to insane clown posse mmmmmm  
> ALSO 11 BOOKMARKED WOW!!!! THANK UUUUUUUUUU WAAAAAAAAAAA  
> NEXT CHAPTER BE OUT SOON!!!!


	7. you love the greed, don't you, babe?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A momentary fate of the thickening blood of our embracing lips.  
> For the confusion that bubbles the frustration and dryly swallows your youth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyyy  
> srry if the chapters comin out slower than usual or shit, just caught up with freshman homework lol,,,, but rlly happy with the readers that attend the updates !!!! so grateful for all of u, again, i love you !!!

"Dream??"

From the brief startle of the early morning, feet switched of old sneakers but now dawned within freshly bought. An expense of sold performances and limpy records, a dreary response from public and media. Found into compartments of stair dwellings, just finishing his occupation within locking his apartment door. He wore of black-tinted sunglasses, but dared not to refresh himself of a different sweater pigment other than his adoring favoritism towards blue.

But, he had whipped his fluttering eyes behind him, to the creak of elder wood. Fearing it might've been either unknown neighbor or uncanny stalker. And although the brunet is much relieved.. Somehow, someway.. the irritation sinks deep into his tongue and weighs down his eyebrows.

"Oh, hey." Dream responds, unfazed.

Stood behind him, rather menacingly since his lack of noise and or indication of his presence which was at most fault for the alarm. His fingers are stuffed neatly and gently into the jean pockets, simple enough to share his gaze down to George. Who bit away his relief and stutter, at yet, upholder that usual calmness of vexatious frowns. But to the degree of their travels and the time they have spent together, Dream (and rather everyone else) grows used to the rarity, as it was not so much as a rarity by now. 

But George hushed him of the loud tone, wavering his hands and raising the index to the pucker of lips. To which, Dream flinches, freezes, but then blinks off the interaction. "For the love of—" George started, flopping his arms down sloppily as his averts his eyes with rolls. "You fucking scared me, what's wrong with you?"

George's facial expressions had scrunched upon his exclamation, soon dragging irises back to Dream. A boy who only tickled his lip of teeth to steal skin away from, where his palm reaches to his neck slowly. Fingers that fit so well into a mic, now massage fringed strands of yellow that collect to the gullet. "I was just walking up the stairway..?" He whines the mumble, as if he were scolded like some kind of pup.

George shuns the scoff, soon gathering his nails for shaggy hair, brushing all the brown back. "Yes—.. I—I know, why are you here? What are you doing?" He uttered through the slight embarrassment of prior tone.

Dream shrugs, a sheepish manner of his action. Where he swooped his lids to lower, where they greet the impaired age of the planks they stand upon. Yet, his smile is kind, but brought forth the itch inside of George's gut so inconveniently. "Just wanted to visit," He explains shortly, another shrug that lifts his shoulders. 

George stares silently.

With bottom eyelashes that squint his vision of unnecessary suspicion.

His fingers have dangled unintentionally, where they have gripped the thinness of his shirt, twisting the vulnerable folds from anticipation. And how fingers that were once so bare, fingers that were once naked in the mangled disfigurement of mic wires, now balter with cold embraces. How every other finger danced with rings either bought by Dream or gifted from their crowds.

Either way.. It makes a tapping sound with every clash two fingers come into contact to.

And just made their pastime music for George's heavy sigh, tucking his apartment key to his jacket pocket. 

"You didn't call." George hums softly.

"I did, actually," Dream states. And before his eyes lower, coated of his awaiting stoicism. "You just wouldn't pick up."

And the birds muffle from the windows, barricaded just like piling, paying crowds. Screeches of differentiating names and hopping shoes that once were lined up accordingly on the outside. Like the birds, they intrude to the men's unblinking glimpse of unnatural tension. But now, it deems one-sided. Somehow urging the brunet to engrave his confusion.. And quiet culpability.

Dream's unkempt hair reached to the edged borders of his forehead, careful enough for watered down curls to not cause uncertainties in the way of his vision. George could've sworn he should've felt more pangs into his gut.. Or maybe just another warmth to skin, but nothing avails. 

Must be applauded, but yet, craved it. But soon, he finds his breath. He's careful. He's cautious. Various conclusions if he were to say something indifferent of Dream's expectations, even if George could've have the slightest clue what it to be. His tongue slides across the backsides of his teeth, cleaning of the bitterness and the aftertaste of last night's steak. Where his fingers have a sluggish journey for his pocket, upholding that apartment key of his. They met inside the warmth of cloth, just about to meet the fate of gelid silver.

"Interesting,"

But just before abrupt contact, he yanks away the tips, ripped from furthering. Leaving the metal of a key to not bring into fruition.

George scorns.

And he glared to the other's innocent gaze.

The hallway is empty, the hallway is dense, and the hallway only feels like miles and miles for the entrance of the elevator. But George sneers not for their echoed conversation that should've been scheduled for next week's rehearsal, but instead he pushed past Dream. Knocked softly of his shoulder unwelcoming, before the serene gesture of his walking direction. "Bad said that we had time to relax and stuff," George insisted, his feet pressing forth hastily as he headed down the hallway. "So I don't have time for any visitors, right now.."

Of the speed of clicking teeth and words that spurred so quickly just for the height of the ending to the conversation, Dream hums lowly at it. But, he's yet to follow George from the hallway. Where it rippled the grainy carpet that reeks the need of a vacuum, Dream consists himself where George had pushed past him. Lost and unlucky of one's touch and another's leeching changes. To which, he frowns, sucking his lips of combination. 

"I never took you to be the one to go to parties, George."

Dream's voice is somewhat.. Strained. Struggling through a throat of truth and the muffled thickness of air that swarms the unlit hallway. Allowing the morning sun to just be their vacancy and George to glare at when he turned back to him. After he had fluttered his nervousness and the aimed discomfort. The floorboards squeak and shrivel through George's boot that perched closer of the direction of Dream's. Even if they had been far away, he doesn't take any time to not notice how his eyes avert and dismay. They run from corner of corner that is deemed pointless, dancing to his environment as if it was anything of interest.

There's the scratch within the sensitive skin of a throat, begging and pleading for an ending of drowning tension.

But George couldn't help but think.. With a steadying sneer of ushered lips..

_Nosey.._

George raised his brow, just ready for his darkened tone. Where he could preach of his needed privacy and an urged finger that rests perturbed in the middle of digits. He's upset, but he isn't to know why. Just why, and how it makes it feel good to have someone plop to his personal, unoccupied acception. 

"Don't make me feel bad, stop that," George's limbs slow from numbness, wobbled at the attempt to point a stating finger to a blond. One that is correct, one that is indifferent of egotistical snarkiness, one who's voice actually caved in the concern and slight disappointment. "It's not a party, it's just something Sap invited me to." 

The blond of his hair shivered at the strands, few to collide towards the bridge of his nose. Lying beneath, avoiding aside annoyed eyes. Twitch to the left of his eye, following along a cheek that mimics the movement. His lips, too, chapped and brittle, they lift momentarily for temporary irritation. And he scoffs.

Dream scoffed. 

Bristling his demeanor of annoyance, he scoffed.

_He scoffed.._

The brunet could only process the action once more, again and again.

_He scoffed..?_

George replays that image into his brain until it burns and weakens the mind of painting. He doesn't want to be surprised, he really doesn't, but he couldn't even think of a day where Dream would behold an emotion that wasn't tenderized with childishness and the brink of simple playfulness. His eyelashes wink tads, where his own frown had dropped and fell with a lips that disconnected ajar. Because it was mainly an expression, it was the specific noise he has never seen Dream express towards. Not even when he had to deal with small minded reporters or scouting media. 

Not an eye roll, a slight regard may be the exception, but nothing for his disagreement make presentations. Dream was reasonable and convinced ones with enlightened maturity. But, now, spread into a decaying apartment building with a chest that raised and expanded quicker than George could count his heart beats. It's different. A kind of different that George shouldn't know if he could be scared of or take him to a hospital for.

He looks hurt. Emotionally, at that.

Either way, George is surprised. Maybe Dream is too, for their strung silence.

But George twitched his lowering eyelids.

"Stop making it sound like I'm going down some bad path or something," George shakes his head. His upper body following along the lower half, twisting to where he was properly sneering down to the other. "We already finished the tour, Dream, and we're already planned for another one soon. We've done so much together, Sapnap included." George states, a stern bargain that clasps both his stare and voice indications. "So why are you acting like this..?"

George's tone buffered through the anger that layers lightly on his expression, not even to notice how his voice powers through the question. Where his confusion has dissolved deeply to the grainy frustration, but to lead him for the grip of resentment. Dream may be surprised to how George responds to his own faults, but the brunet waits for his answer. Of why George was the one who had been targeted for sheepish side glances and those weird statements he'd always have to sit through. How weird Dream was, the brunet needed those answers. Rather, this closure was aged an ache. For George's stomach couldn't plummet any longer and his eyebrows couldn't dig any lower.

This isn't something that's meant to be accustomed to.

Because this isn't the first time that this has happened.

And that's the thing that pisses George off the most.

Repitition of Dream's actions that'll go unanswered and discard his mind of thoughts to poke at him when sleep attends. To sway for his discomposure at their rehearsals, when George wasn't fully in the adaption of wiping sweat from his forehead. 

The hallway seems to seperate the two even more, the ugly carpets stretch and stretch to blur the uncouth designs that hide beneath their heels. George is only asking simply, whilst he's returned to a hurt expression. Of Dream, who's clenched fists finally gasp for their release, shattering their form to go limp and futile. There is the noticeable panting of his rising chest, where his throat wiggled for those dry swallows of crestfallen appeals. 

Because this feels too familiar from another time, another one of Dream's peculiar moments with him. Where the two weren't grown from laughter and boasting their playfullness in the touring bus. And it's sour, to have to be the stern face of one's conversations. Insensitivity plucked for the language of averting eyes, to avoid an awkwardness that was inexorable. And in that hallway, the hallway where George awaits his untimely tardiness for his schedule, he is appointed to confrontation. And soon.. Is remembering well of before..

Of the night of one show, where the three have been painted to the vast stage and rise amongst clumps of crowds. Squinted through those hot lights that mush through their assigned colors. Pants that heave the itch of gullets and the moisture that resumes to wipe from George's upper lip. Here, once more, of enjoyment to every individual, thumping through their instruments.

But here, George had been meant for harmonization with Dream.

They've already been acquainted from the unneeded introductions of the indulgence of presences, where curtains were nothing more that tossed aside fabric with a burden to their name. All that was clouding up the mixture of three colored lights was pounding bass that violates the building. Tossing along the people that swam beneath them, only to catch ahold of sprung hands like weeds to be tended to. They've come to one of their songs, a bridge of the lyrics that was specified for all three of them to hum lowly of. Of course, with our well-known singer of a blond to be the main course of volume. That was the must, devine must. He would sing the rasp while a drummer and guitarist would hum lowly as backup.

For reasons of the obvious standard, Sapnap had long discarded the action of leaning into the microphone for the words of song. He was assigned for the gentle flow of the bridge, just simple sentences that are meant for even the greatest simpleton. And yet, he's abandoned it for his judge of embarrassment or himself too occupied of slapping drumsticks and a bopping head. 

And forth, left both Dream and George to take their attendance for the strung out notes. Whilst George depended himself to just be a 'background vocal' and just a 'background vocal' only, his singing is soft and enough for swoons and ecstatic hops of jumbled bunches. He had no glare, no tear of a bottom lip via shaky teeth, nor a fixated eyebrow to his requirement of stealing a few chalky breaths for vocals. 

But this..

This is something that George wasn't the fan of, even if the majority of his voice is suffocated with guitar and drums.

_He isn't singing.._

There isn't a pause, neither halt from the continuation of his intone, but George couldn't help but to feel the twitch of his nose. Where his eyes forgotten their confused blink to the fingers that balter with a guitar pick. In fact, he's accustomed to just look away from his focus of the instrument.

The people lowered from them are sensual to awake beading eyes to the brunet, a world of admiration and beaut to cater past ever gleam of eye. They bounce, cast aside of some untimely mosh pits or tumbled bodies, but they bought George's still figure. Simply standing, as he does for the majority of the shows, just playing, the crowd somehow finding the enjoyment and entertainment in motionless body who's fingers is the only source of movement.

_Why isn't he singing.._

George's lips press very lightly to silver, tasting the sweat of metal and germs that'll probably morph into regret later. But his words don't stop their beginning of vocalizations, but his eyes become impatient. Along with the rest of his facial expressions, that are carving their either agitation and or irritation. Because, while he's been arching his neck back for necessary notes of lyrics, while he flutters closed eyes gently through glistened tongue to spit the sultry, even when his body is swaying unknowingly..

_Why aren't you singing..?_

And it's a glare.

Shaped and patterned for the desired emotion he wishes to send sharply. George's eyes swarm past him, and to the side of him, to the blond of specified requirements. One job (perhaps two if you wish to partake the bass playing), for one person, but the brunet had to notify of how Dream brought nothing of his promises. The message of his annoyance is brink clear, even if there's hair in his face, George shot those daggers to the other.

_Sing, dammit, fucking sing, already._

And it's a stumble of his words.

Alas, with his face shifting to his right, his mouth is resumed to aim at the mic. George wanted to curse, and make his thoughts a creation of alternative sentences for the cause of his distress. He's confused, he doesn't like it, and he notices too of Sapnap's own tilting head. 

George's eyes peer to the collective space frowned upon them, where Dream stood too many feet to count from him. Dumbly, and even for George to urge a wavering hand to. But. It's pointless. And his hands are tied. Glued to a guitar of blue streaks, while he expects highly of the addition of a bass.

Not only had Dream abandoned his hums and growls, but his hands melt to the metal and slippery strings. All he is, is standing. Slouched of his back, with exposed arms that lazily grasp the mic stand that's slowly growing off his fingertips, George takes his dagger for blond hair struggling in another's eyelashes. 

_Why are you staring at me._

Almost widened, but yet, the curtains of lids leave a lost expression of his. He only stared to George, hope lost from the moment his digits formed a refusal and his voice trained off and diminished. George was the only one to be singing, while Dream chipped away the moments.

_Why are you looking at me like that._

George is nervous. But not in the same why that he used to be nervous. Because now, George's lips do not ripple away their position of tender singing, neither appoint palms elsewhere. But there's the ringing. It's washing so leisurely in the back of his mind, stumbling over a scheduled migraine to be medicated with secondhand smoke, and it's booming louder that Sapnap's drums. 

And it's his breathy release of air.

The ringing consumed George's own audible indication, and wiping away all that was important. Improving at no pace, where George could just hear nothing but beating. It's like gulping, but more shaky and painted with more of that fear. And desire, if you so please. George's eyebrows fixated to their dipped shape, batting more puzzlement that he could offer. Dream and listlessness paved the blond's heartbeat to his ears. Because, it wasn't George's own heartbeat.. But rather, Dream's.

Dream isn't singing, nor playing, but it feels like he's..

_Stop watching me._

Not even examining to read of George's movements or sounds, it doesn't even feel like he's announcing it as a jesting favor. It's like eyes. Just his eyes. And everytime that George had the audacity to blink, there they were again. Through the slumber of his ears, in the darkness of static blackness, flashed of Dream and the admiration that coats his irises. A swoon, of the way his body limps to George's own voice he's becoming insecure towards.

The blond's eyes feels like a crowd, every individual person that he could muster in this crowded compartment of the house, Dream insures his gaze to be sighing with loving air. 

Except, Dream is not a crowd.

He's not every individual person that George could muster in the crowded compartment of the house, either.

He's Dream. And crowds didn't have the capacity to cause George to slip on words and intensify his breathing. 

It doesn't even feel like it either. The weightlessness of his gut inspects it to be more powerful than those who paid to scramble in the building, and his legs wobble as if it's enchanting all that he's worth.

Dream, his eyes, watching him. Why, he might've felt a little embarrassed. Because Dream dropped his singing and playing for the while, just to hear George's own. As if he's sublime and as if the brunet is mellifluous for a sentiment stare, he refuses the warmth that crept to cheeks and skin.

Instead, Dream did that for him.

_What is he doing._

_My face feels too warm now, dammit._

George couldn't even notice the alignment of steps that proceed towards him, where they keep task at tossing down a heavy bass to the floor. Bound to no strings of a mic stand, its left without touch where Dream left it. Through their path of each other that seperates them, the other goes beyond intentional expectation. Drifting the stage, the light management is slow to realize of Dream's moving figure, quick to follow the green patch of tainted lambent of spotlight with a traveling body. And the mix is with blue, altercation of the two colors that George squinted to. But more-or-so, hoped the front row couldn't notice the true discoloration of his face and begged that they percieve it as the mild change of hues.

Because for Dream's moving feet, and the way his torso is free of a thickening bass strap whilst his arms were opening the welcome. George finds more stumbles and wrong wording of his sentences, coughing out breathlessness of chorus and lyrics as he tries not to let the chin perched to his shoulder pave a distraction.

But it's kind of hard to keep focus when you're receiving a messy hug from behind. And from Dream especially.

George attempts to scratch his neck away from the face of the blond's, still remaining emotionless of himself, he leans over George and applies himself behind and onto a shoulder. While hands, long and slumped, they cave around his own waist. Disfiguring the bagginess of George's sweater, and outlining a gentle hold. A tender embrace. A distraction.

Where Dream's intertwined hands have made home to the brunet's upper stomach. He left room for George to resume his sloppy plucks of strings, and even more room to stammer to the microphone. " _A—And.. H_ ah.." Slurring out his exhale, George's lidded scorn is all but trailing off the lyrics. To the another hung behind him for the gentle grasp, its warm and blinked the admiration. Rarity to behold of his touch, tightening their hug with a small squeeze.

But Dream's eyes imply more than one of the worst timings of his odd behavior. Alas, besides the fact of his careful hold to George, those irises are held and lowered to the floor. You may mistaken for the playing of George's fingers, but it wouldn't be of charge. But, looks more for him to be taking it in. Enjoyment, loving thrill, something that gets George's chest to not shut up and his stomach to twist cautiously.

With his eyes tangled up with Dream's, worries of complicated perplexity with one's who is so unreadable, his lips tremble through that feeling again.

It made him rot.

_ Why . _

It wasn't just the concern, or the fact that George was missing every other note on the guitar and spitting any hum that came to mind, but it was Dream. Where he's nothing but everything he's able to feel. Where the skin is brushed to another's sweat, a curved nose which decorates of freckles that presses against a pale neck. George felt dizzy, a mind that blurs through the daze of his vision. 

Of lips that were never meant to meet the approach of George's skin, with a mouth that should only be observed from afar, the brunet feels nothing more of his rotting spine violated of journeying electricity. George could barely even peer down to the other's engagement along his neck, but he only wishes that he should've averted his eyes a long time ago, prior. Because, while his vision swarms to catering twirls of blond, under the rust and implicted regret.. His lips that graze the delicacy of his skin, pressing them too carefully and recklessly to George's neck. And it's him. It's Dream.

And his expression looks hurt, almost shattered.

George could count the unquiet lashes that sprout from the border of those lids, he could name every one of those freckles that endure the lowering drops of sweat that form, but never.. never could George work out the meaning of such a shattered look on Dream's face as he..

As he..

He..

"How am I not supposed to be weirded out by that, Dream?? Explain to me how," George shudders for the rapid speed of his sockets, whispering harshly through the apartment stairs the two clambered through. The echo is rough, and inexcusable for the repitition of one's angered tone, following the ruination of the two's brisk steps. George's caught his fingers tightly to his sweater, pouring his face for disgust. Either to himself or Dream, neither was to know.

The blond doesn't risk himself of paced footsteps upon stairs, but revives the leisurely timed tempo to discard of George's quickened own. Yet, his face is concerned and teeth are chartered of the tad worry, "George."

"You kissed my neck, how the hell am I supposed to feel about that?!"

George shakes his head through the triumph. Blurring through the grey of painted concrete and the freezing rods of stairwells that he clung to. The dim light allows him to yank essential gasps of his frustration, where his palm was shielded to protect an area that lips were once pressed upon. A boy ruined and wrecked of his mind, he couldn't help but speak of the memory from months prior. He couldn't hold it in for such longer, that would only hurt and confuse him even more. It's every emotion that you could exchange into one. The antitode for exasperation. "I—I don't even know how you'd even fucking explain that, Dream," George spat, adjusting his black-tinted sunglasses.

But the other keeps up to another's flying frame through the steps, wincing everytime that the brunet had stumbled on concrete via his emotional stage. "I don't even know, I'm sorry, George. Really, I am, but you didn't say anything after the show so I thought we were cool, then."

George tumbles his hand against the cheek of his own, wiping it down whilst he tore the skin with. "Because how would I even approach that to you??" He exclaimed, his eyes widened as his shoulders grew the tremble. His head twists a tad for the exaggeration of his quotation, "'Hey, Dream, I'm kinda wondering why you k—.. kissed my neck while we were preforming in front of millions of people'.. How do you even ask a question like that..!"

Their bodies are faced to the neutral area of ground, the ground of light grey met with flailing arms and concerned brows. George pauses in his halt, hands that cave into his head to cure and tug. While, Dream, holds sincere palms to his chest, urging the genuine sentiment, "Really, George, I'm sorry." He coughed up an apology while the other pants the dismay. 

And yet, an apology wasn't what is at aid. An apology wasn't something that would've soothed George's angered passion. Left on that stage was smothered pride, all abandoned was the brunet's tranquility. Which left him stiff and hopeless, with an apology to be of no help.

Because he wasn't looking for an apology.

No.

_That's the last thing I want, actually.._

George fumbles continuously with his rings, of nails that have dug to every corner of the digits' curves. He spun himself, wicked with his ushering inhales. Again, he's in this cycle once more. Through clashes of war and caving pressure, with drunken rain and cluttering leakage of the water pipes, why does he always end up here. Somewhere secluded,here of hesitancy that blossoms to burn the throat, his neck aches of the reminence and the arch he produces to stare up at Dream.

" _Why_ ," 

George uttered, his breath gone missing and pronouncing the thwart that clenched his teeth. 

He is defeated.

And his eyes have grown dry, along with his voice.

"Just  _why_ do I want you to do it again..??"

Failure for the composure, his calmness that had long shriveled through gifted vinyls and microphone stands. He glares more of widening despair, an undirected curve of his individuality, George couldn't be found for ceasing his shaky fists. His gripped sweater, ruined from afflictions and produced of wrinkled folds. Shattering himself with his admitted desire, meant for secrecy but had unknowingly slipped through rash lips. 

The echo is rang across the flight of stairs they've traveled amongst, and shudders the doorknobs of every catering door. It's disappointment reeked, and George didn't want anything more but to leave. 

Dream blinks shocked, but the feeling waters down through his recitation. "'To do it again'..?," He repeats, through his head converting the slight tilt. George's posture had froze, a whisper of quivers that vibrate down his spine. Thin bone of mountainous engravings to twitch the realization of his words. And the nausea negativity scratches to the gut. 

_Shit.._

"You.." Dream seems to process the scene over and over again, same with another. It's too terrible to describe of what Dream was to be thinking or what title he could name of the expression. But considering the slightly gape of lips, along with averting eyes, George couldn't even move. Of course, he notes of Dream's discoloration. Like disease, it's slowly becoming transferred to George's own cheeks. 

"You want me to kiss you on the neck, agai—"

"I'm leaving."

His limbs find their nerves, they proceed of the rediscovery of control. Fingers coil, and his legs find the coldness of untouched concrete. Solid indication that allows George to quickly whip himself from a blond and grip stairwells. 

He stole air from the disturbance and awkward appal, the appearance of reddening skin. The brunet's face is violated of the perturbation, burning himself alive of the uneasiness. 

_God dammit._

The wind is spiteful, and the grass resonates of calming freshness. Trampled through, thus untouched from scampered, sober feet that proceed with another questionably, plastered ones. They drug the concrete that laid next to those green eyelashes of planted Earth, but they are hung into elevators and hallways so familiar. With familiarity, embraced of the undesirable location at no choice.

Let alone the breathe of distastful air that gasps from George's lips, the lingering swoonings of alcohol and bearing fresh cigars paste to Dream's nose. Which is scornful, but it's nothing more than question after question the blond wishes to discover. Unfold of the other's travels, the one he was currently pulling to his apartment door from armpits. The one who reeks the stench of handed smoke for decaying lungs, the one who had kindly (and idiotically) accepted those of mindless drinks, the one that had Bad call for Dream at one-thirty in the morning. 

The blond hadn't expected himself to be awoken to the tense setting of his telephone, and how Bad's voice cracked and ran the shrill. Normally, as any other person of his fame degree, Dream had shuddered to clatters of the ringing. Considering he had just finished with two other interviews, following through his photoshoots after he had finished talking to the brunet that morning. So tired, and powdered underneath his eyes for the coverage of bags, but alas, never could he deny that of worry once he heard the mention of George's name.

The both knew of their uncertain situation. Of the tension that had sprouted from their oddly spoken conversations, kindly intrigued from their performances or backstage sharing cigarettes. And Dream tended to regret his idea of not attending the parties George had always boasted about the invitations. Alas, his schedule could never allow such a thing, and he'd always get George slipped from the center of his palm. Watching another, who took ahold of the interest of sniffings and new tastes. And he would forever question to why his eyebrows and gut fixate lowly at the sound of George's newly gathered friends he'd accompany.

Bad and Sap nodded their heads to it a couple times prior, but those nods were soon to dissolve to unsure tilts. Until they were simply shakes, with worrying irises. 

Because Dream knew that their close relationship was bleeding away, a sorrow that pleased a revenge of the space that carries between them.

Fearless, Dream proceeds to remind himself that he had no right of the control of the other. He reminds himself in his own mansion, in the swaying blankets of a queen-sized bed in his nights. But, now, the reminder slaps to him as he gently scoots George into a couch. The couch of the apartment he had first taken the other without such permission. And like last time, he insisted that it was closer. He could've taken him to the other condos he had owned, numerous to spare, but this location provided more the sanctuary. He thanks Bad for the aid, nodding to the security he's been acquired. 

"Make sure he sobers up, Dream.." Bad sighs gratefully, his index aimed to scratch at his sweaty forehead. And soon, the doorway was his direction of value, waving his hand, "Ah.. Give him some medicine, while you're at it."

Dream situations a blanket of woven black and white to the figure on the couch, who only laid limped. Once was clutched to piggy-back of the blond, and now passed out through thick and thin. Such messy hair he was shameless against, and protesting with usual bagginess of blue sweater and the jeans. Nevertheless, Dream granted to a plastered expression, "I already used it all from last time."

Bad squints. "Seriously..? Goodness,"

Dream hums a discomfort for the situation.. At at the pain that laid to his heel. Like before, all so taped together and stacked of bandages. From his recklessness of their shows, it's accustomed (and rather a staple to him or so claimed by the media) for his bandaids that were medicine for his blisters. He would be expected them to have vanished or dissapear to leave behind scarring by now, and yet, every night he sends himself to clean them and reapply. Their tour had already concluded months ago, and he still had to take the time out of his day to go through with the pains. The money spent for bandages wasn't no problem, but it's a rather hassle considering his engagement of plans during the day. 

Ah.. Supposed he must clean them after he situations George.

"What'd he do now?" Dream ponders, even if he might know the answer. 

Bad shook his head, the disappointment adjusts past his dissatisfaction from their night. He, comfortably exhausted more than Dream to be. He hesitates, with a long pause with switching eyes that travel. Which Dream would've propped an eyebrow, but soon enough, "I think he almost got roofied."

Admitted softly, and dizzy to cross over Dream body. The vibrations of trembles that edge down his own spine, by the shock to layer himself. He discourages to the words paired together, almost rolling his eyes if it wasn't for his stressful heart to be weighted with alarm.

He's changed, well enough that media would've took notice. Through George's disagreements of his change, and his wrist to wipe away the chalkiness of discomforting white that abused underneath his nose, it was those small bursts. The blond knew George to not be so cocky, to not have such a big head of his career. He's a good person, everyone knew this, and things like these only happen once in a while. It wasn't to be everyday, but still, every time it happens..

"Thank you for letting me know, Bad." Spoken past his shaky tone, the doorknob heeds to the palm to be softly swung. "Goodnight."

Dream couldn't care any more about reputation, or the image he stocked upon printing papers, but he was concerned more for his friend's safety. Of how one used to be so self-reserved upon the cameras and stage. Shy enough for his humble nature and unprecedented acknowledgement to refusals of curses. But behind the lowering of curtains, away from shuttering flashing cameras, he's torn away.

Dream stared down to the other, drooling his drunk despair and the unnoticed worry he's been presented by the band. Dream shakes his head. His hand drug to the other's that hung off the couch, slowly to his pace, it woven into his own and connected the coldness to be healed. Of sincerity, he gazes down earnestly. A glint of sadness to be hidden in the green.

But, still, even in this moment, he swallows the consequences of his greed. Where he wants to remember more of the innocence of their sharing tips of lit to unlit cigars, where he could reminence to where he had first met George. The club that suckered downtown, when he was just staff and that was all his desire was to be at. Never in those times before did his emotions cascade of their desire. Peering to the vacancy of another's lips. A man of talent and wealth, was to be, and is to be, a love that is acquainted with a doubt of return. 

Dream frowns.

And soon.. His fingers have slowly untangled from the other's. Like many other times prior, George's own do not respond of the same engagement.

Soon, turned away at the sight of his interest, his feet proceed to the medicine cabinet.

_What am I doing here..?_

Although the blanket he had been swarmed against was gentle and tainted with the tad of crumbs dribbled from George's mouth. Of his unsaid apologies and the hope of it going unnoticed, he proceeds his fork to the plate once more. It had nipped of a small scratching noise, screeched of the metal and causing both men to wince of the abruptness. But, George continued to lay upon the television comforted to the side of him, with nothing more but a couch pillow to assist the ache of his back. Of gossip of his own profile, either the compliment or unfazed insult, George took the admiration of himself on the screen. That guitar of his, and the jumps or hops of ones below, granted his own agreement.

He could've sworn that Bad should've taken him home by now, but it's the littlest amount of shock that he's ended up here. A cold room, with nothing more than the scraping rips of familiar packaging that headed the aid for blisters. All while prodding to a quiche he gifted gratitude for.

"Hey, could you hand me the bandages..?"

For the pause of the blond's reapplying bandaids, his kind smile is nothing more but serenity. Not all for his bed of roses, but the brunet couldn't help but tense up towards his voice. It's not like they hadn't talked in his time here, no, through Dream's enforcement of abiding medicine to his delicate questions about the comfort of the quality of his quiche... But still. It was still sort of..

_Awkward._

Both knew of their situation. Of the early morning, when they both saw each other. And when words splurged without intention, and George indulged himself from distraction after distraction. Wisked away the need of unharmful pursuits, but maybe that's why he ended up where he is know. A migraine eating away of his mindlessness while he wished to spit out every bite of food he had forced himself through. And thus, George took refusal to respond. Keeping his eyes adjusted to the television screen. Occupied two fingers that cleanse him of his cigarette.

But, the box of bandaids are settled to the coffee table beside him. Pushed from the trashcan that suffered of yesterday's dose and today's unwrappings. And Dream has no problem in his observation of George's ignoring nature. 

"George." He states. And if George wasn't so careful, he would've taken his statement for a question. But the other's lowering voice imposed otherwise.

So, he props another forkful of egg into his mouth. Perching the annoyance onto his tone, accepting himself to turn his head. "What?"

A small moment for Dream's silence. As his voice rather taken him a back, unprepared for irritation. But, the same emotion slowly embodies to his stare. Soon, a raised finger aims to the box he spoke highly for. "I need the bandages, could you hand them to me..?"

A small pause for George's own mindful questions. Even if it's the excuse to continue gazing to the blond.

Perhaps, it was his own negligence, or maybe it was the fact that George was in his disagreements to notice. To the another's fatigueness, swaying upon his curved back. He knew not of Dream's schedule upon after their cessation of the tour.. But he just knew that George saw more and more of news articles, magazines, and aired interviews. Of course, the band would grasp many appearances to those, but George couldn't image of Dream's own negotiations. Consider that of the many bags taking shelter underneath skin.

The guilt was strong. Knowing that he was staying up with George at such a late hour. 

The brunet would've tossed the necessity to Dream with carelessness, but his face had softened. Only wanting to show his grateful factor, by slowly setting down his plate of food. Ushering his own body to the other's couch, near of the large window. Tucking the box near the other.

Grasped of it, the blisters at his ankles awaken for their joy. "Didn't take you long to stop ignoring me, hm?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's nice," George shakes his head. Tugging along the blanket that had drug across the wooden floor, a perfect placement for a glaring cat. He kneaded ahold of the softness, cautiously catering it up and over his own shoulders. And once he sets himself aside Dream of reasonable distance, he resumes his peer to the screen. Catching upon the documentation of the three being swarmed of media. 

"Feeling better?" Asked with an examining eye, Dream tore from the box and plastered it to his wounds.

George caught to the both of his hands, binding them together beneath the blanket. Squinting towards the scene of boasting interviews, he dug nails to his knuckles. Seeping away the tension he hoped wasn't to be too one-sided. "Yeah." He responded quickly.

Dream nods. "That's good. I was pretty worried."

His interest caves into the lava lamp that placement to the short table besides him. Over his reddening armrest, and shot away from the television, all that of blue blotches dance in mush inside the tube. A delicacy, the beauty of lost bubbles that tap and blob to other company. It's bright within the darkness of the room. "You worry too much." George shakes his head to brush it off his shoulder. "It's annoying."

A blue figurment is pressed against the glass of the triangular gadget, ever so slower to be wiped of the liquid within. It's slow, only building more of George's frustration. His headache tearing more of his blood when the response of Dream's returns.

"I only worry too much when it's about you." 

There, a flinch.

Even when his chin was taking rest to his palm, the ease had dissapeared. Making George wonder if it had ever been their since he had woken up. His teeth clench against how..

Dream did it again.

He.. he did it again. He did it again, again with the comments George couldn't lay a finger upon. The ones that make him inquire additions of bitten skin on his ruined lips. They're adoring, adding in with the way he read his eyes. With Dream's smile that make his chest burn.

George glared to the floor. Away from the lamp that blossomed a grown bubble from its core. Positioning that blue from lowering, the bubble is exhaled widely. And slowly, with careful value, it aims up and towards the tip. All stretching from one another's ends, the blobs slowly surged for a thinning connection. The string of tinted liquid is torn away until there are nothing more than two bubbles. Alas, George wouldn't be able to see, as the clouds of smoke intruded the vision via his lips. Practically shoving his cigarette to his mouth for the distraction.

But, he couldn't grip himself out of the thoughts of another. To Dream.

_Just why._

_Why._

"God, what is wrong with me..?" 

The grumble of groans slip away at his stinging tongue without the glistening intention, his neck losing a once needed strength. Finally, the back of his head that rests to the couch, his palms scratch and nibble to closed eyes. Rubbing that anger into his eyes with the distortion of his desires. Almost painful, considering his very assumptions ever since he found Dream sat on a bench after his working shift. 

The TV mumbles quietly, tuning the unnecessary gossip amongst their presences. Preventing more of anything else the two didn't wish to hear..

Because it is meek and desperate.

Just like George..

And just like Dream.

Dazed beyond the other's scratchy croak of a whine, he modifies himself in the couch. Finishing his bandaging for his ankle, perilous to prop his foot back to the ground. "What?" He responds with spoiled worry. 

George could only feel the static brew within the blackened vision, his knuckles presented harshly as they push and knead. The dots that commence the cruelty of his method of calming down. "I don't.. Fucking know." George sighed, exhaled all his lung capacity and the grey gusts found in molded corners. "I keep." He paused. "I keep thinking, and I feel like you're the one I should blame."

The unprocessed words make way to the admission, blew from forlorn sadness. Where his fingers have concluded the abuse of rubbing eyes, plopped back down to the blanket he clutched. Blurry, blurry, blurry for his vision to regain the formality. Purely soaked in the indistinguishable sight of his trembling limbs. 

_Shit._

George blinks to Dream. Finding that of more puzzlement to go around, as if it was to never end and to grant repetition like a crying vinyl. 

_That sounded stupid._

He grimanced back to his lap, calculating his alternative explanations. Of context that he'd need to blurt through. "I'm still on about our conversation earlier, is what I mean." George confesses, announced as his vision flew from wall to ceiling. "I'm still pissed, frustrated. It didn't make any sense to me then, and it doesn't make sense to me now." He uttered.

Dream exhaled. "Well, now I'm confused." He blankly inputs, a slight shrug implanted to shoulders.

George bit the inside of his cheek, as if to relief any resorting tension.

"Just say what you need to say, George," Cautiously slipping his teeth to whisper, he couldn't feel more than his eyes to engrave his initials to the side of his head. 

And to that, there's a pause.

So abrupt, and indescribable, George could practically feel the nerves and blood cells to halt of every motion. Of every motor ability he had learned since he was a toddler, each of those wishes have switched a lever and left George nothing. 

_Does he really not know..?_

George's neck grumbles of movement, after his moment of falling grace. Where it could twitch and remember all its meant for. Sedated for miserable healings, he couldn't even glare, nor could he grasp the ideal of emotion. All crumbled away, for an exhaling scoff. 

_Is he serious?_

Dream and all he had ever was, with barely any light to be engnited to that dense expression of his. Where he awaits and craves patiently to those who are unsure. All from freckle to pimple, of the time he first met him and the glance once George had sobered up, its just Dream. 

_He's fucking serious._

"D.." George permits his poor attempt. Scribbled away from his control, he couldn't search anymore for his elaboration. "You're.." But the words have brought introduction that was left unfinished, and trailed from ending dots.

The days they have been brought together from either show or rehearsal, neither recording room or their checkups for raising charts. George could only remember it being Dream to become odd. To do things that George couldn't expect from, but knowing that he just needed more of it. He wanted Dream to resume his actions, of all of odd moments. The times of sharing their cigarettes, when Dream tried to fucking kiss him, when Dream actually fucking kissed him on his neck midway show, and the way he just looked at him.

It's sudden, it's mistaken, it inherits that of confusion.

_You aren't supposed to like those types of things, George, so what are you..?_

_So why do I desire it more..?_

And the brunet feels his digits to quiver, where he hid a bitten tongue and riddles away his disappointment. Nervous lips that shrivel through digging teeth, and his eyes soften of despair when he looks to Dream. Scorched upon his cheeks, his cigarette only split the ash of wastefulness. And he didn't know why, but his throat hurt. And there was a particular itch to sectioned skin, urging him to swallow nothing but the nonexistent saliva. Where he couldn't understand why he felt like crying so badly. 

"I'm.."

George couldn't figure himself of why he's behaving this way. And it almost panicked his torso of pounding, where he threw refusals for a conclusion. Laid to rest, it's barricaded behind locked chains and the prison of his own selfishness.

His nose was touching his. And the consciousness of doubting thoughts fracture timed breathing. George couldn't saught the reason to pull away from Dream's crept in face. To how they never shattered a gaze, where it's all caught up in the bruner's throat. That Dream was closer than any microphone George ever beared.

Whispered with delicacies of need, Dream hums, "You're what..?"

_I'm so confused._

_I'm sorry._

_I'm.._

"I'm.." Only brought that of his hand, the wrist clasped the air of splintered greetings. Where it reached not his own skin or the other's shoulders for perch, it ignited differently than the touch of a guitar pick. Except, there's the different feeling of his heart. Clambering for the words he couldn't say in his own reveries, the sentence to tear thin skin from bone. Served for how his realization is dense.

The silence of growing thoughts.

"I'm.."

And yet, there isn't an inhale for anything more. The intake of George's fruitless frame, he could awaken to dust and the coldness of their situation. And nevertheless, he keeps away all the emotion and feeling for his own sake. The power of his fingers, that once were to the pointless instrument, have grazed along Dream's shoulders. Settling before the other palm that pressed to his cheek, squeezing his eyes to gentle impact. 

_Rotten._

Neither a drunken breath could wipe away the tremble of insipid tasteless lips. Never could George would hint anything more than desire, and the way Dream droused himself of his transparency. Where the brunet's body caved in from the blond's, wilting away their connection to never part. George couldn't imagine his lips to be so endearing, for the way his hands had found the placement of George's hips. And George was cautious for his own fingers to be upon Dream's cheeks, and to how he couldn't help but squirm. How intention never spoke this far. And yet, now he's more confused than he used to be. 

It hurts.

And there was sweet fragrance of the dying meadows that pestow him of a similar piano tune, and rather beutifuing the adoration. George could never understand how one person could ever handle themselves of so much want and need, somebody that wasn't him. To Dream, who looked to accept anything of George's. Even if it was that of an unintentional kiss.

His spine had already met the fate of the couch seats, past and beyond the scratching arm rest and propped elbow. It was broken from the control, and of how George allowed it to be. He couldn't realize more than Dream's drooping strands of blond. Positioning above him, where his hands trail down from his hips. Thretened from George's refusing desire. Fooled from crashing fires that were nothing more than sensational flaunts. Bleeding away that of his realization, to what he was doing. It was suffocating, and it hurts him. To where George pulls away harshly. 

Distraught with softly spoken lies. he could taste the expectations he saw through the first time they had met. Bear through his fear and he was in love with it. But, he was to realize that that was his own medicine. And a weakening realization. A new emotion he bought of, something that tasted different other than guilt and regret.

And it felt too warm in his heart.

Which caught George's averted palms to place a holding stance upon the blond's chest. Ushered of his panting lips to part.

"I'm.." Begun with a lost look, George's gaze is crumbling to his daggering response. Pressing himself to inhale the air of all that he wanted to resume for, Dream becomes troubled with confusion. 

_Rotten.._

"I'm not rotten, Dream." A statement that is slipped from his coldness, and pushing away the conflicts that has never welcomed him. How could he ever.. With Dream. How could Dream ever..

With a deepening glare, that was covered of dying sins, he scoffs that of the disappointment he swallowed. George knew what he wanted, hid mind had clouded of it since the start.. But he'd never allow himself to receive it.

Because he isn't rotten.

He doesn't want to be.

Discarding the two's own personal shocks, George only regains his remained control. The only control that he was able to provide wraps of, as of right now, and that was his body slipping from underneath Dream. Even if the couch cried for his figure to be drug back towards the position, George grimanced at what just happened. As he stands, staggering through the vacuumed rug and nearly knocking over the lavalamp. His fingers provide a gentle tap to his lips, feeling that of where Dream's used to be.

Releasing a shaky sigh, he blinked to Dream who had hopped up. Searching and pleading amongst for words, as nothing was released.

George shakes his head slowly. 

"You.." The brunet started, of melting uncertainty and spoiling teeth. "You like me."

It would be the only answer. A possible outcome of all the strange things Dream would to. The things that'll tumble through George's mind as he would reach for the grip of sleep. How dense was he to be towards the man, and why had he realized after his mistake was brought forth? It brings the both with panting breaths and recovering whispers. 

"Don't you..?" George adds.

Dream's words are stolen, and are ripped from his blood and veins. All while George backs up from the one he wanted to desperately spring into, he wouldn't bring himself to that nature. A saddening look that blossoms onto Dream, as his palms have risen of his anguish. 

Dream's lips shiver, and he yelped after the other who's feet begun to pick up. Casting aside the blanket that was gifted, and drawing his shoes to the wooden floor. Plummeting himself of plopping shoelaces, as his widened eyes avert from the blond dryly. Washing over his comfort, he could only tear himself towards the door of the apartment. Swift and miserable clutch of his touched lips, the inevitable had striked. Something to be prevented, so why was George the one to ignite the fire, first? Just why. Why, why, why.

The exclaims of George's name croak to him even when he grabs any random sweater he could find. With unfortunate wishes and smiles, he is propped to that leather jacket of Dream's. And with care thrown out the window, he squints to the material. But, the opened door called him for his exit. And despite a roll of eyes and a cheeks of heat, he slipped himself into the jacket and aimed from Dream's apartment. With the other following, all while George couldn't even look at him. He doesn't even think he'll ever.

And through the impatience of the elevator and the alternative choice of racing stairs, across the lobby with undignified glares, Dream follows George desperately until they reach the rising sun. Although still dark, George doesn't swallow the cries of a vehicle, displaying his waving hang.

"George," With his reasoning tone, Dream attempts.

But George shook his head, wiping his knuckles down his own cheek. "I'm not.." George exhaled, a nervous chuckle coughed through. To that, he waves his hand harsher, catching ahold the attention of yellow of checkers. "I'm not like that, Dream.."

But the blond fumbled of George's shoulder, as softly his fingers could allow. But, always, a wiggled motion was passed through, shoving the palm off of its spot. George sent the dagger and his hints, but Dream kept coming back. "You were the one who kissed me first, George." He states, firmly.

George bit his lip, spitting at the disgust for himself. "I—.. I know."

It's cold, and the wind chewed up his hair and the digits that were flown within the air. The cab that was presented through the passing cars seemed to just taunt George of the presence. _Come on, come on_ , he repeats within his mind for the escape. Until his feet begun to streak his path towards the vehicle, the other to immediately follow. "You can't like me, Dream."

But the blond propped in front of him, with his attempt to get George to look at him. But of hope and the thankfulness, his eyes were fled to his feet automatically. Hiding away his discoloration with clenched fists. "Why not?" Dream questioned honestly, his eyes tightening.

But George swerved around the tall frame, his shoulder knocking into the other's arm, not caring if it was to be intentional or not. He just wanted to leave, he needed to leave. Holding back his words of confession, hiding away all that he wanted. It was unfair, it was criminally cruel, but George chewed at his guilt..

_Because I'm selfish._

His body sways of the uncomfortable darkness, gratitude drowning at he perched to the lamppost engravement. And George is closer to the car, a tad more strides he could force himself through and he could avoid everything. He wouldn't have to feel to harsh in his heart, and his breath could finally come back to him. The panic was confined into his tongue, and his body was weaker than wind.

But, Dream found his position, back to the specified concrete. Barely a hand's reach to tap the hood of the cab, the blond busted to a barricade. Hurt, and everything droused of it, he prevents anymore for George to pass. Seeking all those emotions that George once felt had passed onto him and his expression. "You're just playing with your food, at this point." He grimanced, distracting away from the voice cracks.

But George scoffed, sneering to the grass that violate holes of concrete. They have grown to the frowns, the green that aligned imperfectly along the carvings of the sidewalk. And his neck arched recklessly, of his anger and the need for rest. He glared up to Dream, chucking once more, "You think you're _food_ to me??" Coding himself of the sentence, his tone crawled with his disbelief. Spat with harshness coated of his annoyance. _What am I saying, what am I saying?_ "You look to flatter yourself." He shook his head, once more, ignoring the similar expression. Shattered and broken from George, faults to be traced back to the brunet opening the car door.

His fingers flinch to a freezing door handle, a tremble for sensitivity. The metal had the grip, and George swung the blur of yellow. But before his body had the depending chance to thrown himself into the car, he stopped and sucked in his gasps. Turning back to Dream, enforced behind him with panting force.

Regret tasted awful, and the guilt was cold upon decaying teeth, everything terrible that had built into a piling gut. Running away once more, George gazed along Dream's desperation. 

"You're mistaken, Dream." His eyes pour softly, and he hummed the statement he wanted to believe so badly. "You long for a pretty lady, not a pretty man."

"You say that as if you know me." Dream responds intently.

George's unspoiled gender had wilted the possibilities of felicity and desire, with the bruises that were never meant to heal. His hand drapes over the cab door, urging more and more for his body to be swallowed into cheap leather seats. 

But Dream caught quickly of the brunet's wrist, with the ruffle of his clothing. Sparked across the illumination the light above brought of. Unevening the proportion of Dream's shadow, George whips his head back. Tad shocked, but it remains of Dream's fervor and the look in his eyes. A tightening clasp, a flinch was commenced but they stare nervously.

And that only weakened him, and turned him into a wreck of mush on the inside, haunting his stomach of awful insects. he didn't know if they were butterflies, but either way, they were eating him away

_Lips._

George winced to the voiceless interaction, his wrist squirming through the grip.

_His lips._

Dropping away the pride, and ought for mistake after mistake, Dream couldn't release anything more to say. To how the wind licked to his shallow curls, tangling with his eyelashes that was squeezed the need. Alive for the moment, with a quiver of his lips that are drug and despaired of the gusts with breeze. The necessity for unspoken words, Dream struggled with his air. The hesitancy of George's causes him to avert his eyes, unsettled of the blond's frozen state. 

Undetermined of a cascading fear, George's throat peered an itch. And his fingers wiggle along the palm, becoming more anxious beneath the latching despair.

"I.. I l—"

George's eyes flew wider at a beginning croak of Dream's, the fright that beholds him to yank away his hand. Hushing away the fear, crumbling all that of emotion and light, securing himself for prevention. And that last touch, with force of his crying wrist and exposed skin, crept through their last engagement of a gaze. How the both of their faces had become closer than realization, George had ripped away from Dream. Again. And strung himself to a closing car door, hung into a stench of misconduct. He feels like crying, throwing up, or doing both at the same time. Reminding more to Dream's hurt expression, and the rejection of emotions belonging to both the other and himself. And falling apart behind him, George kicks at the driver's seat for his hurry. Screeching tires that cry through the brunet's demand.

His body had tensed through his shout, but a spine plopped back to a hard seat of expectation. It's unwelcoming, and disgusting beyond his touch, but everything better than returning to Dream.

For his temporary moment, George gasps away the hiccuping heaps of air. Calming himself more of his requiring breath, shaking his thoughts from success. But, in that exhaustion, tearing apart his reality, he twisted his neck to turn. Looking back to the window, and staring back to Dream. Hurting his will, and collapsing his freedom of grief. 

Into a caludren of feared eyes.

Only such weak ones could fall in love, only they can indulge that of wilting despair. Ruined of their greed and desires, decayed of their understanding. 

Only weak ones rot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ur mom

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by pri__108 on instragram.  
> story written by poopbuddypoopbuddy.  
> luv u <3


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